


The Seduction Of One John H. Watson

by WhatLocked



Series: The Seduce & Keep Series [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Abuse of Mycroft's credit card, Accidental piercing, An unnatural love of tea, Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward/clumsy sex, Bellybutton Sex, Blow Jobs, Cold Showers, Dead porn star, First Kiss, Flirting, Inappropriate consumption of a banana, Insecurities, Jealousy, John's mullet, Kinky pants, Kitten sacrificing to the devil, Love of Jam, M/M, Manslaughtering penguins, Massage, Much masturbation, Not quite self-inflicted injuries, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Pining, Possessive/Obsessive Behaviour, Premature ejaculation in a rather spectacular fashion, Really pissed off John, Red Pants, Rimming, So much imaginary sex, fear of needles, no pants, violin playing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty muchly, what it says on the tin.</p><p>Sherlock's POV - first person</p><p>Completed</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Me and John

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second attempt at fan-fiction and my very first attempt at smut, so please...be gentle.
> 
> I would also like to warn you that I am not a native to the UK so please forgive me for any mistakes or misinterpretations of the English way. Google can only give you so much of an experience.
> 
> Another quick warning to let you know that this piece of work was developed during the hours that most normal people dedicate to the act of sleeping, so my brain power was not at it's maximum. I apologise for any typos.
> 
> And one last note to state that I do not own any of these characters but if their current owners ever feel the need to let them go I will happily adopt them.
> 
> This work has now been edited by the lovely leyley09, so a great big huge thank you for that one!!!! If there are still any mistakes it is purely my fault for not following suggested corrections!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, my lovelies. Here is Chapter 1 and I am sending out a HUGE apology as it is essentially just the first episode, translated, but it sets the scene. To make up for this, however, I am also posting Chapter 2 today. Enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~

Clearly ex-military.  Clearly a doctor.

 Conclusion: Ex-army doctor.

 Walks with a cane but does not use it for standing.

 Conclusion: Psychosomatic limp.

 I spoke to Mike about flat-sharing, not that I wanted to, just that it was not possible to find someone willing to.  Mike is here with an old friend who clearly has no use for the lab.

 Conclusion: Mike took it up as a serious challenge and thinks he has found me a flatmate.

 Introduced as John Watson.  Late thirties; five foot six; solid build; sandy blonde hair, greying; dark blue eyes.

 Conclusion: Attractive in an ordinary way.

 Nothing extraordinary about the man, but there was something.  Something about John Watson.  Something that wasn’t like everyone else, but what?

 Conclusion:  Need more data.

 “Afghanistan or Iraq?” I ask, opening up the message function on the doctor’s phone.

 “Sorry?” the man in front of me asks with a frown.

 I continue my text message.  “Which was it?  Afghanistan or Iraq?”  I look back up at John and then back down at the text.  I can sense the smaller man exchanging glances with Mike.

 “Afghanistan, sorry, how did you know…?”

 We are interrupted by Molly.  I talk to her.  She talks back to me.  She leaves.

 I lay my flaws…well, the more tolerable ones anyway, out in front of the doctor.  “One should know a few bad habits about each other before deciding to flat share.”  Apparently I have made the decision to seriously take up a flatmate.  I’m not too sure when my mind made that decision, but now that it is out my mouth, it sounds like an interesting idea.

 The doctor accuses Mike of discussing him with me.  Mike denies it.

 “Then who said anything about flatmates?” John is now clearly confused.  I internally sigh.  Maybe he is just like everybody else.

 I look to the doctor. No fear.  Nothing to hide.  Sheer determination.  He would not be run down by me.  No, there is definitely something there.  I slip into my coat.  “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap.”

 “How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asks me.

 I choose to ignore his question, no need to show off just yet, and wrap my scarf around my neck.  Picking up my phone, I rattle on, “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it.”  Heading towards the door, I rattle off the details for the viewing.  “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening.  Seven o’clock. Sorry, gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

 I can feel John’s gaze follow me across the room as I make my way to the door.  “Is that it?” he asks, slightly rankled.

 I stop at the door, and then turn to face the doctor.  A few steps closer and I ask, “Is that what?”

 A small smile comes over the doctor’s face, one that practically mutters ‘ _Unbelievable_ ’.  “We've only just met, and we’re going to go and look at a flat?”

 “Problem?” I ask, because I honestly don’t see one.

 The small smile on John’s face turns into one of utter disbelief.  He looks to Mike for answers, but Mike has seen this a hundred times.  He is probably finding the whole thing amusing to some degree. John then turns his attention back to me, which I find I don’t quite mind.  That feeling requires more research.

 “We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name”  John spits out as if this was all very obvious that those were normal things to discuss before deciding to view a flat together.  (Well, I guess the address would be helpful.)  Maybe they are.  I have never looked at a flat with someone else, so this is all new territory for me.

 I study him before opening my mouth to speak.  Apparently now is the time to show off.  “I know you’re an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid.”  At this, I notice the doctor look down at his leg and give an awkward little shuffle of his feet.  Although I can’t see it, I know there is a smug look on my face as I continue.  “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

 I turn around and head back to the door.  Just as I am about to walk through it, I remember the rest of John’s concerns.  Leaning back into the room, I look at John.  “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street” then I click my tongue and wink at John.  Why did I do that?  Again, more research is required.

 “Afternoon”, I call as I stalk out of the lab and into the corridor, making my way down to the mortuary to retrieve my riding crop.

 

 ~o~

 

I haul the last box up to the living area inside 221B Baker Street, the last of the stuff that I didn’t trust Mycroft’s lackeys to handle.  It is all here now.  All of my belongings.  Now it is just a case of finding a home for it.  I sigh.  Such tedious work.  I had accepted the flat last week, when Mrs Hudson had offered it to me.  Even if she hadn’t been leasing the flat to me at a reduced rate, I still wouldn’t need someone to share the rent.  I flop down on the couch, lying back with my fingers steepled under my chin.  So why have I suddenly decided to allow someone into my space, something I haven’t done in a very long time.  More particularly, why someone who appeared as ordinary as John Watson, ex-army doctor?  What is it about him that has caught my attention?  On the surface, there is nothing remarkable.  Not in the way he looks, or in the way he speaks.  Although he has what should be a slightly impressive career, it certainly isn’t anything that would hold my interest if he decided to share the particulars with me.  There is nothing that indicates that his intelligence is at my level.  We most certainly come from two different worlds.  There isn’t anything I can glean from him that I can’t easily get from anyone else, so what is so appealing about John Watson?

 I close my eyes and replay the entire meeting from the lab.  Right from when I heard footsteps, and Mike’s voice, outside the doors, right down to when I winked, (I still can’t believe I did that), and left the room to head down to the mortuary.

 “John Watson” I say out quietly to the empty room.  “Why you?”  The answer I receive is silence.

 

 ~o~

 

I arrive at the flat, just on seven, to see a cab pull up at the kerb.  Right on time.  I turn from the black door to see the doctor limping out of the cab.   _He really needs to do something about that limp._

John pays the cabbie and then turns to me.

 We exchange pleasantries as I knock on the door.  As it would be, I have left my keys on the kitchen table, and it probably wouldn’t do to let John know exactly how proficient I am at picking locks…yet.

 “Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive” John sounds a bit unsure.  I feel the need to reassure him.  Again, this feeling needs more research.

 “Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

 “Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?”  Did John sound impressed?

 “Oh no. I ensured it.”  I smile as the door is opened by my - our? - my landlady.

 Introductions are made, and we are ushered inside, up the stairs to the flat.  Although he tries to ignore it, I can see that the stairs are a bit of a challenge for him.   _He really needs to do something about that limp_ , I tell myself again.

 John’s first impression of the flat is good, even after it is established the contents of the building are not, in fact, rubbish but are indeed my belongings.  Maybe I should have made more of an attempt last night to put the belongings away.   But he is not put off.   I offer to tidy up.  I know it’s an empty promise, but I offer it all the same.

 John meets the skull.  He still doesn't seem put off.

 Mrs Hudson offers John the room upstairs, but it is clear that she is really assuring John that she has no issues with him being my boyfriend.  I feel a small, nervous flutter in my stomach.  John confirms that, yes, it will definitely be needed.  The flutters feel a bit more like nausea.  I don’t understand either of those reactions.  More research needed.  I don’t listen as Mrs Hudson chatters on.  I am sure I have heard it all before.  Instead, I potter in the living room, while John makes himself comfortable in the arm chair.  I stop pottering and listen as he starts to speak.  The uncomfortable feeling that was previously in my stomach now starts to flutter again as John informs me that he looked at my website last night.  I school my features so as not to look thrilled at this prospect as I seek his opinion.  The fluttering in my stomach stops as John doubts the content of my work, so I point out all that I had deduced about him in one glance.

 He asks me how I knew all of that, but we are then disturbed by Mrs Hudson, rattling on about this spate of suicides.  I groan inwardly.  Any fool can see that these are clearly murders.  This is then confirmed by the arrival of the detective heading up this case, DI Lestrade and my night just became a hell of a lot more interesting.  Sorry John, as fascinating as you are, but four murders, made to look like suicide.  I couldn't let this one pass.

 I tell John to make himself at home, and bid both him and Mrs Hudson farewell as I leave the kitchen and make my way down the stairs.  As I reach the bottom, the words “DAMN MY LEG” carry from upstairs and a thought occurs to me.

 A doctor, a man who is meant to heal but who chose to go to war.  This is a man that is used to danger.  Has seen violence, and a lot of it, and has not backed away from it in fear or disgust.  Not only that, he is a doctor, who would have a world of knowledge on anatomy and different types of death and injury.  I turn from the door and make my way up the stairs, stopping in the lounge door.  The doctor is sitting in the arm chair still, reading the paper, looking very much at home.

 “You’re a doctor.” I say quietly.  “In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”

 “Yes,” John replies, getting to his feet with the aid of that damn cane.   _We really do have to do something about that limp_.  He faces me.

 “Any good?” I ask, pulling on my gloves.

 “Very good.”  Not bragging.  Just stating a fact.

 “Seen a lot of injuries, then, violent deaths?” I ask him casually.

 “Yes” is the answer I receive.

 “Bit of trouble too, I bet.”  It is not a question.

 “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” John answers quietly, but there is a glint in his eyes that says differently.

 “Want to see some more?” I ask.

 “Oh god, yes” is his enthusiastic answer.

 With that, we are headed down the stairs and into a taxi, on our way to Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.

 

 ~o~

 

The ride starts off quiet, but soon evolves into a conversation about what it is that I do.  I then proceed to tell John how I knew all of those things about him, back in the lab at St. Bart’s.  From the tan on his wrist to his hair cut, to his memories of the old St. Bart’s. I explain his limp, and come to the conclusion that he was wounded in war.  I then go on to his phone, and how I deduced that it belonged to his alcoholic brother, Harry.

 He surprises me by saying “Amazing.”

 It’s a definite change from the usual ‘ _Piss off_ ’ that I receive, and I am suddenly thankful for the lack of light in the back of the cab as I can feel my face heating up with the praise.

 John then lets me know that _Harry_ is short for Harriet.  There is always something.

 

~o~

 

John proves helpful at the crime scene, supporting what I have already figured out, helping me prove a point.  He is not put off by my briskness, and sends even more praise my way with ‘ _Brilliant_ ’ and ‘ _Fantastic_.’  It’s all I can do not to puff out my chest at the compliments.  The term “peacocking” comes to mind, but I push the thought away. I can’t think of that now.  There is something that is missing.  The victim’s suitcase.  Where is it? The police have no idea.  They hadn't even come to the conclusion that there would be a suitcase.  All they had to do was observe the evidence in front of them.  I suppose if they did that, I would be out of a job.

 The suitcase now sits at the forefront of my mind, and I leave the crime scene, looking for the pink case that I am sure will hold the answers that we need.  Less than half an hour later, I have found what I was looking for, stuffed into a skip.  I make my way back to 221 Baker Street, up to flat B, and open up the garishly pink case to riffle through the contents.  No phone.  Where is her phone?

 I send John a message to meet me at the flat, if convenient.  I probably shouldn't have given him the option, so I tell him to come if not convenient.  Maybe I should add some incentive.

  **Could be dangerous  SH**  I text him.

 I then place three nicotine patches on my arm and lie back on the couch running the facts of the case through my head as the chemicals course through my body, helping me to focus.  Not as good as a real cigarette.  Definitely not as good as a hit of cocaine.  But it is going to have to do.  It is better than nothing.

 

~o~

 

John returns.  I knew he would. Obviously ‘ _danger_ ’ is the magic word.  As I expected, my good doctor is an adrenaline junkie.  That gets me thinking about his leg, not that I get much time to think about before he starts talking to me.

 Once he has gotten past my overuse of nicotine patches and has given me the _smoking-is-bad_ speech (typical doctor), I manage to get him to send a text to the dead woman’s phone.  I was pleasantly surprised that he didn't yell at me for dragging him back to the flat just to use his phone, although he was clearly not happy about it.  I was even impressed when he told me that my insufferable git of a brother, kidnapping him no doubt, had bribed him to spy on me, but he had turned down the offer to get paid for it. Admittedly, he should have thought that through.  (We could have taken Mycroft’s money and wasted it.)  Loyal and handy.  John Watson is going to be a very useful acquisition, even if he is dreadfully slow at texting.  We can work on that.

 I reveal the case to John, and he is surprised but soon catches up.  He is not too put out when I call him an idiot, and is even less so when I explain that nearly everyone is.  And although I am not surprised, I am pleased when he decides to continue his involvement in the case even after it is established that he is only filling in for the skull.  There is a possibility that he thinks that is a joke.

 

~o~

 

We make it to a small restaurant to wait for the murderer.  I walk, and John limps.  I carry out my plan to fix that ;when we get there I slip Angelo, the owner of the restaurant, a message as we sit down.  I get that feeling again, and not the happy fluttering one, when John is adamant that he is not my date.  I shouldn't feel anything.  He is not my date. He is not lying about it.  I am starting to find these feelings rather concerning.  I am Sherlock Holmes.  I don’t do feelings.  I push the problem to the back of my mind to deal with later.  But it is then brought back forward when John asks if I have a girlfriend.  Not since I was 12, and then, it only lasted the afternoon.

 “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

 There is a brief silence, then, “Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend?”

 I study John again.  I was certain he was straight.  Maybe not.  Bisexual maybe.  Interesting.  Why is that interesting?

 John obviously takes my silence as offence as he quickly adds, “Which is fine, by the way.”

 “I know it's fine” I add - probably a bit too quickly.

 John offers a smile as if to diffuse the situation and then says, behind a forkful of food, “So you've got a boyfriend then?”

 “No” I reply.  Is he flirting with me?  My stomach turns, not in a bad way, but not in a good way either.

 John is still smiling, but he looks a bit nervous.  “Right. Okay. You’re unattached. Like me” he says down to his plate.   “Fine. ( _A cough to clear his throat_.) Good.”

 I watch John as he puts another forkful of food in his mouth.  I may be a bit out of practice, but that was definitely a come on.  My stomach turns again.  This has to stop.  I can’t afford for these feelings to interfere with my work.  They are not wanted.  That doesn't explain why I can’t look at John when I next speak.  “John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any ...”

 “No” John spits out, maybe just a bit louder than strictly necessary.  He clears his throat and continues, quieter, “No, I'm not asking. No. I'm just saying, it’s all fine.”  He looks me in the eye as he says the last part.  I look at him a moment.  Is he telling the truth, or is he hiding his disappointment at the rejection?  I can’t tell, and it is frustrating.  Why can’t I read him?

 I nod at him, deciding that I can’t deal with this now.  “Good. Thank you” and with that, I turn my attention back out the window.

 That is when our first mad dash around London begins, even if it is a wild goose chase.  And it is also when I fix that god forsaken limp.  John doesn't even notice that he has left his cane behind until Angelo shows up at the flat with the stick. He obviously understood the message about John’s cane.  I knew I could rely on Angelo.  I happily inform Mrs Hudson that John will, indeed, be taking the room upstairs.

 

~o~

 

Bloody Lestrade and his ‘ _Drug Bust_.’  How did he even know that I had the case already?  His team is incompetent.  Surely they can’t have figured it out on their own, so soon.  And then there is John, defending me.  He has barely known me for 24 hours, and he is backing me up.  Unjustified this time, unfortunately.  What he doesn't know, well, didn't until two minutes ago, was that Lestrade actually has a reason, albeit an old one, to search my flat for drugs, even if that isn't the intended purpose of the raid.  I flinch at the look on John’s face, when it sinks in, but I quickly turn back to the commotion going on around us.   What the hell is Anderson doing here?  And why is Donovan holding my eyeballs?

 Lestrade and I get into a pissing competition – _who wears the nicotine patch better?_ – and I somehow manage to plunge the room into silence with an offhand, but honest and practical, comment about our murder victim.

 “Bit not good” John agrees when I ask him about it.

 But that comment sparks something in my brain, and suddenly it is all about the work again.  Between the police nagging me and Mrs Hudson rattling on about a taxi, it is amazing that I figure anything out at all.  But I do, and that is how I find myself sitting in the back of an ambulance, pushing off yet another bright orange blanket.  Why do they keep placing it over my shoulders?  Lestrade tells me it is for shock.  I am not in shock.  I don’t even know why I have to see the EMT’s.  Nor why Lestrade insists on getting my statement _now_.  The case is over, and just beyond the police tape I can see John waiting for me.  Why is he waiting for me?  Why am I happy about this?  It is these bloody feelings again.  Lestrade is still talking to me.  And again he has missed every clue that points to the shooter of our murderous cabbie.  I sigh and rattled off the facts.

 “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon … that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service ..."

 I stop and look back up at John.  “... and nerves of steel...”

 John looks up at me innocently, and then turns to look at something else.  Something clicks.  John.  Doctor, soldier, nerves of steel yet highly moral.  Suffered a psychosomatic limp, but has no other visible symptoms of PTSD.  John, who is different to other people and possibly more intelligent than the average person.  John who just shot Jeff Hope to save my life.  Saved my life after knowing me for only just over a day.  I realise that I am staring and quickly turn my attention away from John before Lestrade also puts two and two together.  He is actually quite good at that, not that I will ever tell him so.

 “Actually, do you know what? Ignore me” I almost stutter.

 “Sorry?” the DI almost cries.

 “Ignore all of that. It’s just the, umm, the shock talking” I lie, quickly as I leave the ambulance to walk towards John.

 Making my way to John is harder than it should be.  Lestrade keeps trying to stop me for more of an answer and doesn't let me go until I agree to go into the station tomorrow to give my statement.

 When I reach John we make small talk about the case.  He tries to deny that it was him that shot the cabbie, but I still tell him that he needs to get the powder burns off of his fingers, even though I am pretty sure he won’t do time for this, but court cases are terribly tedious.

 I know that allowing John into my life is a good choice when he is giggling with me at the crime scene.  And then he calls me an idiot, but it is said fondly, and I can’t help grinning.  John accepts me.  That is not something I ever expected.

 We decide to get dinner, as it has been quite a while since I last ate, and I really feel like the Chinese on the end of Baker Street.  But, alas, our plans are interrupted by my interfering brother.  He is not greeted kindly, and I don’t care.   I was surprised that it had taken him as long as it did to ‘ _proposition_ ’ John as it was.  I shouldn't be surprised that he is here now. He can’t help himself. He blabbers on about his concern for me.  That’s his way of saying that he is a nosey git, who can’t keep his nose out of anyone’s business, especially mine.  It is when Mycroft brings Mummy into the conversation that John finally cottons on that this pompous toff standing in front of us is actually my brother, and not actually my arch-enemy, much as I loath to admit it.  Pity.  An arch-enemy would be fun.  After a few more words and childish arguing, I spit my farewell out to my brother and walk away.  John follows, but then stops.  I hear him chat with Mycroft before running to catch up with me again, and we continue on our way to the Chinese restaurant at the end of Baker Street.  I really am hungry.  And I have much to think about.

 I have Moriarty, the name that the cabbie shouted just before he died.  My new _fan_.  And I have John.  The man I don’t know enough about.  The man who has brought out these long forgotten feelings that need analysing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha....finally re-found the site where I got the original transcript from "A Study In Pink".  
> Thanks to Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan @ http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html for all of her hard work in putting every precious word of the episode in script. It made my job SOOOOO much easier!!


	2. Conclusion: Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's fascination with John takes a turn into the slightly infatuated. 
> 
> This is where some of the less innocent tags start to come into play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has now been fixed up by the fabulous leyley09!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Three months.  John has been with me for three months, exactly.  Although I have learnt much about John in that time- his love for jam, especially strawberry; his collection of jumpers; the fact that he used to play the clarinet as a school boy; his typing skills are as abysmal as his texting skills- I still do not know enough.  Like why he evokes these feelings in me.  Still.  I know what these feelings are.  I have had them before,but not for eleven years eight months and twenty three days.  That is when I completely shut these feelings down and locked them away, with the purpose of them never resurfacing again.  But since that day when John H. Watson (one day I will find out what the H stands for) limped into the lab, they have broken free of their confines and have been running amok with not only my mind, but also my body.  And it is getting worse.  The small uncertain flutter that I used to feel has now turned into what feels like a kaleidoscope of Queen Alexandra Birdwings trying to make a tornado in my belly.

To start off with, I was fascinated with John.  He made me feel good about myself.  I had originally acknowledged that he was attractive, in an average sort of way, but now I find myself comparing other people to the way John looks.  The man who measures me for my suit has blue eyes, but they are not a deep navy blue like John’s, and they lack John’s spark.  The trainee forensic expert, training under Anderson (and anyone, really, is an expert compared to Anderson), has sandy blond hair, but John’s has more integrated shades of brown, blonde, and even a few grey, which give it a much more textured and fascinating look.  The client who came in last week about his step-father and sister running away to elope was well built, but his shoulders were not as strong looking as John’s and his waist didn't narrow down to offset a nice looking arse, as John’s does.  And nobody under the age of seventy looks good in a cardigan (even then it doesn't exactly look good, just acceptable).  Except John.  Cardigans and knitted jumpers make John look safe and mild-mannered.  Approachable.  But I know better.  I know it’s an illusion.  I have seen John bring down a man twice his size, just for spitting at his feet.  I have seen John shoot at his target (never to kill since Jeff Hope) and not once miss, no matter what the circumstances.  I have seen John bring Sally Donovan down, with a tone so quiet even I had trouble hearing him, for not giving those who help make her job easier the respect they deserve, and all the while, John has looked soft and cuddly in his knitted jumpers.

I then started to notice really little things about John, like how the corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughs, and how his tongue sticks out, just a bit, to wet his lips on an average of once every seven minutes.  He likes his hair brushed to the right and uses no product in his hair.  He slips his shoes on and off without unlacing them.  The jumper he wears the most is an oatmeal cable knit, which is quite soft, despite its scratchy look.  He bites the left hand side of his bottom lip, just gently, when he is typing and doing the daily crossword puzzle.  He prefers the stove kettle over the electric kettle.  He taps the end of the pen or pencil he is using against his chin when he is thinking about what he needs to write.  He has better days at work (the clinic not the cases) when he has been working with children.  He looks a little bit like a hedgehog, especially when he gets all protective and bristly.

Then I started to need John.  Just for small things, like reminding me to eat, and bouncing ideas off of.  Not even the skull could fill his place anymore.  I have started talking to him, even when he is not here.  It is a comforting thought.  I learnt his work schedules, and have familiarised myself with the pubs he likes to frequent with either Mike or Lestrade (who knew those two would become friends), or on the odd occasion one of his army mates.  I have learnt where he likes to take a walk when he needs some air.  (I am pretty sure that that is his way of saying that I have pissed him off yet again and he needs to leave before he punches me.)  I have learnt all of this so I am able to tell where he is, at any time of the day, in case I need him.  Well, need him for reasons other than my slight obsession.

I have found that messaging him regardless of whether or not he is busy is an effective way to get him to answer me when he is not here, even if it is just tell me to bugger off, _he will be home in two hours_.  Any response from John is a good response, even when it is a bad response.

After a month of him living with me, the dreams started.  They were perfectly innocent.  We would sit and talk.  Or we would be on a case.  But he would always praise me and tell me how wonderful I am.

When awake, I find myself making more effort on cases, throwing in a few extra deductions- ones that aren't necessary, just so I can hear “ _Amazing_ ”, “ _Brilliant_ ”, and “ _Fantastic_ ” more often.  I like how pleasing John makes me feel.

And I was happy with the way things were, the way we were going.  It was pleasant. That was until he brought a girlfriend home.

When John brought _her_ home, two things happened.

First off, I felt real jealousy.  I know John dates girls.  He had been on several dates since he moved in, but up until then he had never brought them back to Baker Street.  Something about me scaring them off.  But six weeks after John moved in he went on a date with Bridgett, or Bryonee, or Bambi….or something, for the third time.  Things were getting serious, and I didn’t like it.

 _There was a clawing feeling in my stomach that wouldn't go away as I listened to John hum as he got ready for his date.  Smart shirt, hair brushed down, good shoes on, aftershave.  He smells better without the aftershave.  The scent that is purely John Watson is the sexiest thing to ever assault my nostrils, but damned if I was going to give him any tips on how to make his date better.  And then he left with a_ “Bye Sherlock.  Don’t wait up!” a _nd that was it.  I didn’t move from the kitchen table all night.  Not even to look into my microscope.  I didn’t realise how long I had been sitting there until I heard the door downstairs open.  Good, John was home.  The date must have ended badly.  But my hope was soon dashed when I heard two pairs of feet make their way up the stairs and a high-pitch girly giggle.  Now, John does have a giggle, and, for a man, he isn’t ashamed of that giggle, but that was definitely not his giggle.  I didn’t know why, but I expected them to come into the living area.  Instead, they just continued up to the third floor.  John’s room.  My night just got worse.  I stood up, turned off the kitchen light and the lounge room light, and just to make it hard for Bonnie, Bella, Barbie, to go down the stairs later that night, I also turned off the foyer light_.   _Hopefully, she wouldn’t stay the night and would fall down the stairs, in the dark, and seriously injure herself.  I made my way to my room and shed my clothes, replacing them with my pyjamas and settled in for the night._

 _That’s when I heard it.  John’s bed creaking.  I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it, but then I heard that horrid woman giggle, followed by a moan.  I pulled the pillow over my head as her moans multiplied and became louder_.  I was not hearing this; I was not hearing this.   _Then she stopped.  Thank god.  It was over._

 _Nope.  I was wrong_.

_The bed was creaking again, faster, and Bethany, Britney, Beatrice, was moaning again, but so was John.  The soft groans and cries he made carried down to my room, and it was all I could focus on._

“Oh, god” _he muttered, albeit it was muffled, but the sound went straight to my cock_. “Oh, god, oh god, oh god, you feel so good.”

_I couldn’t move.  His voice carried through the floorboards.  I knew it was wrong to listen, but seriously, what else could I do?  I managed to filter out Briana, Brooke, Bimbo’s noises and focus on John’s voice, and before I knew what I was doing, I had my pants shucked half way down my thighs and my hand was wrapped around my cock, gently stroking in time with the creaking of the bed above me._

_It had been many years since I had done this.  Since I had wanted to do this.  Yes, I occasionally woke up with an erection- I was human after all- but as a general rule, I ignored it and it went away.  But this one was going to be painful to ignore.  I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this hard, and already I was leaking pre-cum. My hand moved up and down the shaft, my thumb rolling over the head every second or third upstroke. My other hand cupped my balls, gently tugging and rolling them in my palm._

_As the creaking of the bed got louder and John’s moans became closer together, my hand moved faster, up and down, up and down.  A thin sheen of sweat was covering my body, and I bit hard into my bottom lip, trying not to cry out.  It only stood to reason that if I could hear John’s moans, he would most definitely be able to hear mine._

“Oh, baby, that is so hot….keep doing that, god, that’s good” _John growled, and that is when my hand flew from my balls to my mouth, and I bit down to stop the loud_ , “Oh god, John, yes” _leaving my mouth as hot, white come shot across my stomach and chest, soiling my tee-shirt.  Less than thirty seconds later, my teeth still clamped on the flesh webbed between my thumb and index finger, John came with a muffled shout, in the bed above me._

The second thing that happened after that night was that my dreams became a bit more explicit, extremely detailed, and more frequent.  Since that night, masturbation has become a regular occurrence again.  So much that I have gone out and bought lubricant for fear of chafing.  I haven’t been this bad since my teens when I had discovered that I liked guys, which was a relief since I thought there was something wrong with me because I was not even remotely attracted to girls.

I now woke up nearly every morning after I actually slept with an erection.  At first, it had to be dealt with, but now most of them can be ignored or banished in a cold shower.  Quite often, on nights that I do sleep, I _rub one out_ , as John puts it, before I go to sleep.  It is hard for me to lay in my bed and not think about John’s voice, moaning and crying out and telling me that it feels so good.  I would love to thank Bianca, Bronwyn, Bitch-face for that particular fantasy, but after meeting me the following morning, with a blow torch in hand and a uterus on the table in front of me, she never spoke to John again.

Now, I have started to take note of what John likes.  The TV shows he likes to watch, his favourite meals, how he takes his tea and his coffee.  I take note of what shampoo he likes to use and how much is too much before his shoulder starts to give him trouble.  I play music on my violin that I know John particularly enjoys, and I have noticed that John prefers his shower in the evenings, around nine o’clock if it can be managed, rather than in the mornings. I don’t do anything with this information, but I am collecting it, storing it away in a special wing in my mind palace devoted to one John H. Watson.

Simply put, I am obsessed with the man.  John Watson did not just limp into the lab at Saint Bart’s that Tuesday afternoon.  He limped into my life, my mind, and, dare I say it, my heart.  And now every spare moment I have is dedicated to Doctor John Watson.

I am determined to ignore all of this and keep it to myself.  I am still certain that the good doctor is bi-sexual, but I have never seen him make an advance on a man, nor has he talked about going on a date with any men.  And while I am certain, since that night at Angelo’s, that John wouldn't be opposed to a relationship with a male, I am still not one hundred percent certain, and I do not want to make him uncomfortable, which may result in him leaving me.  So I talked myself into believing that the best course of action is to keep things the way they were until I had hard evidence.

Well, that _was_ the plan, but, about four and a half minutes ago, that plan went to hell.

We have just finished chasing a kidnapper down an alley, which thankfully ends up with no serious injury and Scotland Yard not too far behind ready to haul the now unconscious criminal away.  That is when John realises that he had cut the index and middle finger on his right hand.

He hisses in pain as blood slowly drips down his fingers and then, having nothing to wrap them in, sticks the tips of his fingers in his mouth and gently sucks on them to stem the already slow flow of blood.  My mouth has suddenly gone dry at the sight.  John is totally unaware that I am gaping at him, my lips slightly parted.  I am sure my pupils just dilated, and I can feel my heart rate elevating.

Unfortunately, that is not the only thing elevating.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I am thankful for the night cover and my coat, which I quickly button up, to further cover the evidence of my rapidly growing erection.  What is screaming at the forefront of my mind, though, is what else could I get John to suck on?  A brief thought occurs, that I could give him the handkerchief in my jacket pocket to wrap around his fingers to impede the blood dripping from the tips, but I truly am enjoying the sight.  That is until Lestrade comes thundering up behind me, with an officer I have not had the misfortune of meeting yet.  With any luck, it will stay that way.

“Oh, good, you got him”, Lestrade says, looking down at the prone figure on the ground at John’s feet.

“You right there, mate?”  The newcomer asks John, and I glare at the sergeant, as this causes John to remove his fingers from his mouth to answer him.

“Yeah, just a cut. Can patch it up when I get home.”

“What about him?” Lestrade asks, looking at the kidnapper and gently nudging him with a shoe.  “Should I be worried about him?”

“He tripped on some rubbish and hit his head on the way down?” I reply lightly.  No one needs to know that it was on the butt of John’s gun that he hit his head, nor that it happened before he fell.

“Right”, Lestrade says.  I guess he doesn't think anyone else needs to know that either.

“He should be fine”, John clarifies, “He will probably just have an awful headache when he wakes up.”

“Well, if that is all, Detective Inspector, I am sure John has had enough for one evening.  I know I have”, and with that, I grab John’s elbow and lead him out of the alleyway with Lestrade calling out, “I guess I will get your statements tomorrow.” I wave a hand above my head in acknowledgement that I have heard him and may consider his request, knowing that it won’t happen unless John forces me to go, and John and I make our way to a main road and hail a cab to take us back home.  Unfortunately, John’s fingers are no longer bleeding.

I look out the window and watch the city slide by.  I think about tonight’s events.  Not about the case.  About my reaction to a fairly innocent action of John’s. I am still half hard, for crying out loud.   I cannot be seen walking around crime scenes with an erection.  Sally is already convinced I get off on murder; that would only cement her incorrect assumptions.  No, this is completely unacceptable.  I cannot let this continue the way it has been.  Something has to be done.

I cannot ignore it.  I have tried, to no avail.  I cannot lock these emotions away again.  They just keep breaking free.  I cannot leave or ask John to leave as I have already come to the conclusion that, now that I have John in my life, I don’t think I could live without John in my life.  So therefore, I need to make John mine.  The fantasy needs to become a reality in order for it to be able to be controlled.  But how do I do that when John has shown no romantic or sexual interest in me?

Conclusion.  I have to seduce John H. Watson.

 ****  
  



	3. It's Just a Little Fixation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock initiates make-john-mine, playing on John's oral fixation as his first step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has not been a week since my last post, but the chapter was sitting there, ready to go, so here it is. Just a little treat in time for Easter!!!
> 
> Now gratefully edited by the marvellous leyley09. Any errors are purely my own :)

~~~~~~~~~~

  ****

John Watson has an oral fixation.  It is as clear as day to anyone who only spends a small amount of time with the man, let alone someone who lives and works with him.  Bring it up with John and he will adamantly deny it, but John is in denial about many things.

 The first bit of proof is the frequent licking of his lips, which increase from once every seven minute to once every four and a half minutes, on average, when he is excited or aroused.  I picked up on the last one after following him on one of his dates.  It was a slow evening.

 The second fact to back my observation is his tendency to watch the mouths of people he likes when they talk.  Not constantly, but his eyes will flicker from their eyes, down to their mouths for a few seconds, before reverting back up to their eyes.  He has done this to me on countless occasions.

 Point three is the mindless habit he has of putting the tip of any pen, pencil or marker that he is using in his mouth and just gently sucking on it.  This is done subconsciously.  I must admit, this is one of the more annoying traits, as it is just arousing enough that I have to look away and recite the periodic table.

 Evidence item number four is not something that I can claim as a habit, as I observed it only once, but I have a suspicion that it occurs on a more regular basis.  It happened when he came home from the clinic one day sucking on a lolly pop, obviously stolen out of the lolly jar that was there, generally for the benefit of small children who need praise for sitting through a small, practically painless, almost definitely lifesaving procedure.  I am positive that John did not have any immunisation nor did he need comforting after an apparently traumatising medical procedure; therefore, it was a guilty pleasure.  This leads me to believe that it is most definitely _not_ an isolated incident.  John likes sucking on things.

 So, it only stands to reason that step one of seducing John H. Watson is playing on his obvious oral fixation.

 Now that I have determined how Operation _Make-John-Mine_ should begin, it is time to put the plan into action.  First off, lip balm.  I use this anyway; once in the morning, once in the evening.  Chapped lips are awfully uncomfortable and extremely unattractive.  There is no shame in keeping one’s lips soft and smooth and crack free, but the application of lip balm is not something I generally carry out in public.   That is about to change.

 The first time I do it is at a crime scene.  It is cold and windy, and the conditions are perfect for drying out and cracking one’s lips.  I make sure, but not in an obvious way, that John is watching me as I slip the little tube out of my pocket, un-cap it, and apply a thin layer to my lips.  I rub them together as I place the tube back in my pocket and carry on as if I haven’t noticed John staring at my mouth.

 The second time is at the little Thai restaurant around the corner from home.  We have just finished eating.  Well, John has just finished eating.  I sit and watch and discuss the case we are currently working.  I watch as John wipes his mouth with his napkin and, again, pull the little green tube out of my pocket and coat my lips with the balm.  Without looking directly at John, I note as his eyes drop down to my mouth and the tip of his tongue makes an appearance between his own two lips.  Interesting.  It has only been two and three quarters of a minute since he last moistened his own lips.  I keep the smirk of my face and continue talking.

 The lip balm is working wonderfully.  It is time to step it up.  I take up John’s habit of sucking on the end of one's pen, only I go further than the tip.  Whenever John is around and I happen to have a writing implement in my hand, I slowly push a good inch and a half of it into my mouth, give it a slow half twist, and then slowly pull it out again while looking as if I am grossly interested in whatever it is I am meant to be working on.  The first few times this happend, I noticed that John went stock still, watching the push and pull of the little plastic tube while I performed my little act of pen fellating.  Now, he turns and walks away, which is good because it was becoming a challenge to keep the evil little grin from my face.

 The lip balm and the pen trick are working out quite well, and I continue using them while throwing in a few more small things, such as biting my top lip when I seem troubled or gently chewing on the right half of my bottom lip while thinking things through.  I have taken to swiping my tongue over both lips after long speeches or long chases through the streets.  And I don’t just use the tip like John does.  I do a full swipe that completely covers my full bottom lip, then tracing the outline of my Cupid's bow.  It is all I can do not to grin when John unconsciously follows the act on his own mouth, albeit with just the tip of his tongue, as he watches me do so.

 This carries on for two weeks, and the effects are not lessening.  In fact, they seem to have increased John’s little problem.  Whenever I am around, he now licks his lips on an average of every four minutes.  He no longer just sucks on the end of his pen, but has started biting them, leaving little teeth marks on the end.  He watches my mouth when I talk, more than he used to, and he has now started pulling his fork out of his mouth slower when he eats.  I am not one hundred percent sure (not that anyone would hear me freely admit that), but I believe these to be unconscious acts of my good doctor.

 The effects of the project are pleasing as it edges towards the affirmative in my theory that John would be positively responsive to a relationship with me.  Unfortunately, they have a negative effect as well.  I now find myself addicted to not just John, but his mouth.  I spend large portions of my time thinking about it.  What would it feel like under my own lips, what would it taste like.  If I were to kiss him….no, when I do kiss him, will he let me take the lead, or will he try and dominate for control? _I think about his mouth not only on my own mouth, but on my face, my ears, licking and whispering dirty thoughts, travelling down my jaw to my neck, biting and sucking, leaving his mark._ I am not into love bites, but I would let John mark me.  Let him show the world that I belong to him _.  I imagine his mouth kissing and sucking and biting its way down my body, the attention it would pay to my nipples before making its way to my navel_.  I have an extremely sensitive navel.  I used to find it embarrassing, but, as I grew older, I learnt to enjoy any part of my body that brought me pleasure and made sure my partners knew exactly where to go and what to do to maximise that pleasure.  After all, what was the point of suffering their company if there was nothing in it for me?

  _I fantasise about John’s mouth on my thighs, behind my knees, my inner ankle (another unexpected erogenous zone), his tongue along the arch of my foot all before he makes his way back up, and then the vision of John, on his knees, his lips kissing, his tongue licking, and his mouth sucking along the length of my cock.  These thoughts keep me awake when I want to sleep, thoughts of his mouth around me, the slightest scrape of teeth as his head moves down and then up, back and forth, his cheeks hollowing out, just the right amount of pressure, as his tongue works under my foreskin and across the slit at the tip.  I imagine running my fingers through his short hair, my head thrown back as the pleasure courses through my body, heat pooling in the bottom of my belly.  John brings his hands up to my hips to stop me from thrusting.  I can almost feel him moaning; the vibrations run up my length, my balls tightening as John goes lower, the tip of my penis hitting the back of his throat, before he sucks and that is the end of me._

 I turn my head into my pillow and bite, stopping the cry that threatens to break free, as my hand pumps the remainder of my orgasm out as the vision of John and his mouth fade away.  Slowly, my breathing returns to normal, and I unclench my teeth from my pillow, surprised that I haven’t put holes in the material of my pillow slip.  Slowly, I uncurl my hand from around my softening penis and wipe the remains of my fantasy on my stomach.  With a sigh, I get up and make my way into the bathroom and run the shower as hot as I can take it, slipping under the stream with hopes that the effects of the orgasm and the soothing of the hot water on my muscles will allow me to sleep.

 

~o~

 

I am awake before John.  This is unusual, as I have nothing on, but after my shower the previous evening, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I slipped, relatively easily, into a restful slumber. After six hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep, I am ready to get up and out of bed.  I make my way to the kitchen and contemplate making a cup of tea.  I’ll skip breakfast;  I am not particularly hungry.  I look to the clock.  7:45.  It is Saturday.  John should be up soon.  Do I wait for him to get up and make my tea or do I actually make my own?  My decision is made for me as I hear footsteps above me.  John is awake.  He will make me tea.  I walk over and sit in my armchair, gently rubbing my hand through my hair, tugging at it as I try to wake myself up a bit more.

 “Morning”, John calls happily as he makes his way into the living room.

 “Mmm”, I reply.  I may have gotten a good night’s sleep, but that doesn't mean that I am going to be sociable.

 John puts the kettle on, and then makes his way into the bathroom.  Less than a minute later, I hear the toilet flush and then a tap run.  “Tea?” he asks as he walks out of the bathroom into the kitchen, towards the kettle.

 “Mmm”, I reply again, even as he is taking down two mugs from the cupboard.

 John whistles as he makes the tea, and happily puts the mug down in front of me.  “Breakfast?” he asks.  The look I shoot him is a definite ‘NO’ as I pick up my mug and take a sip.  The hot liquid seems to loosen my vocal cords.  “Why are you so chirpy?” I mumble in a way that implies that I think any positive emotion at this time of morning is completely preposterous.

 John slips two pieces of bread into the toaster.  “Carmel”, he replies, as if that is the answer to everything.  Obviously, it isn't, and the look I give him, the one that tells John that I think his answer is quite ridiculous and could he please give a decent answer or refrain from talking at all, propels him to explain further.  “Carmel, the new physiotherapist at the clinic”, he explains.  I suddenly don’t like this explanation, and there is a rather uncomfortable feeling of one rather large ice cube sitting in my stomach.  “We are going out today.”

 Well, _today_ is good.  Today dates don’t usually end in sex.  At least not with people who respected the people they were going out with, like John, and it was a first date.

 “We are driving down to Bristol for a jazz music festival.”

 “Bristol!” I exclaim.  “That’s a day’s travel.  And you don’t drive.”

 “Hardly. It is two and a half hours away, and Carmel is driving”, John explains as he smears his toast with too much jam, and then comes and sits down in front of me, his mouth full of toast.  “And I do drive, well, I can.  I just don’t as we taxi it everywhere.” He takes another bite of toast.

 “Five hours travel, in one day, seems a bit excessive for a first date”, I tell him, definitely _not_ pouting and definitely _not_ paying attention to his tongue licking the jam from the corner of his mouth.

 John swallows the toast in his mouth before speaking again.  “Not really a first date”, he says.  “We went out for coffee last week, on our lunch break, and then we had lunch together yesterday, at the café’ across from the clinic.  She is really nice.  I like her”, he tells me with a stupid grin on his face.  How did I miss all of that?

 Trying my best not to huff, I stand up and make my way into the kitchen.  I have to stop this date from happening.  They are travelling nearly 120 miles away.  Anything could happen.  There is nothing stopping them from getting a room for the night and…and….

 I stop in front of the counter, resting my hands on the edge as I run ideas through my head.  Then I spot the fruit bowl.  John went shopping yesterday, so there is a fresh stock of food in the house, including fruit.  Including bananas. Extremely cliché, but I have to work with what I have, and on limited time as well.  I grab one and make my way back to my arm chair and gracefully sit down.

 “So”, I ask, sounding semi interested, as I slowly peel down one panel of the banana skin, “What time are you leaving?”  Johns gaze follows the slow movement of my hands and, as expected, the tip of his tongue makes an appearance.

 “Nine o'clock”, he replies, but I notice that his voice is a bit lighter than normal, and he swallows, twice, once he has finished talking.  I peel back the second panel of banana peel.  “I thought you weren't hungry”, John accuses half-heartedly.

 “I never said that”, I answer, pulling away the last of the peel and removing it, placing it on the arm of my chair.  I draw the fruit to my mouth and delicately bite the tip off.  “Is she picking you up from here?” I ask as I swallow the food.  I try not to grimace.  I really don’t like bananas.  It is not so much the flavour as it is the texture that I don’t like, but the purpose it is serving seems to be quite effective, judging by the vaguely dazed look on John’s face.  If John is going to go on this date with this _Carmel_ , he will do it with a vision of me with half a banana down my throat.

 John nods as I look at the banana in my hand.  It is a good size, and has an almost perfect curve for what I have in store for it.  Did John think about these things when he picked them?  Or did he just grab the first bunch?  Maybe it was a subconscious choice.  I must pay more attention to the food he buys.

 “What time will you be home?” I ask, and then I try not to watch as John almost spits his tea out as I slowly push half the banana into my mouth and bite.  I am certain that he would have had no choice but to spit the tea out if I had actually given into my urge to show off and pushed the whole thing in, but I don’t want to seem too obvious, which is why I probably shouldn't find a way to bring up my lack of a gag reflex in this conversation.  Plus, chewing half a banana isn't exactly graceful.  Trying to consume a full banana in one go is just messy.

 “I…I don’t…Not too sure”, John finally sputters.

 I chew the banana, and then make an audible swallowing noise and stand up.  “Well, you best get ready.  The charming Carmel will be here soon.  Don’t want to keep her waiting.” With that, I push the rest of the banana into my mouth and slowly saunter to my bedroom, quietly closing the door behind me.

 While John is getting ready, I quickly dress and make my way down to Speedy’s.  The banana worked well, but I want John to leave with a special parting image.  I make my purchase and head back home.  Just as I am about to open the door, a little pink hatchback pulls up in front of the flat.  I wince.  Is John aware of the garish hue of automobile he will be travelling in today?  Because this is most definitely Carmel.  Physiotherapist, jazz fan, cat lover, judging by the sickening matching seat covers in her car.  I sort of feel better.  Most certainly _not_ John’s type.

 “Hi, you must be Sherlock”, Carmel states too cheerfully, holding out her hand even though mine are both clearly occupied.  Early thirties, bottle blonde, green eyes, five foot three, 127 pounds, physically fit.  Definitely a cat lover, especially of the Siamese and the Royal Blue breeds.  Unnaturally whitened teeth, faint acne scars covered by what appears to be enough make-up to need a trowel to apply.  False eyelashes.  What in the hell is John thinking.

 “And you must be Cindy”, I say, plastering on my biggest, falsest smile as I open the front door.  Her smile falters, just a bit, but then picks up again as she remembers something.

 “No, it’s Carmel.  John told me you were terrible with names.” I suppress the frown that wants to overtake my brow.  I have never forgotten anyone’s name in my life.  I force the smile to stay on my face.

 “Oh, you know how it is.  He goes through so many girlfriends.  I can’t keep up anymore.” I step inside to let her through.  “He should be almost ready, if you want to just head on up.”

 Carmel, who is smiling a considerable amount less, makes her way up the stairs, slowly, almost cautiously, as if she is afraid that we will have kitten skin cushions on our couches.  I follow, my false grin now replaced with a self-indulgent smirk, which I drop as I step into the flat.  “Look who I found”, I call with false cheer as I follow Carmel into the room.  John is sitting on the couch, pulling his laced up shoes on.  His face lights up as he sees who it is, and I ignore Carmel’s new, more confident smile and pretend that John’s smile is directed at me.

 “Be ready in two minutes”, John says to Physio Barbie, standing up and following me into the kitchen.  “I have my phone”, he tells me holding it up and making a show of putting it in his pocket.  It is followed by his wallet and keys.  “I really don’t want you to call it or text it unless it is a life or death situation, and even then, keep in mind that I am over two hours away, so please, please, _please_ try to stay out of trouble.”

 I don’t look at John as I open up the box from Speedy’s and remove one of the chocolate éclairs from it.  “I'm sure I will be fine John”, I say as I look up at him, bringing the pastry to my mouth and biting off the end.  I can feel the chocolate on my top lip and the whipped cream on the corner of my mouth as I swallow.  Even if I couldn't feel it, John’s dilated pupils and flushed cheeks as he stares at my mouth would have given it away.  “Go, have fun, don’t give me a second thought”, I say as if I honestly mean it, and then I slowly lick the chocolate and cream away before taking another bite.

 “Hghh…mn…umm…yeah, right.  Fun” he seems to force himself to pull his eyes away from my mouth and look at a spot just over my left shoulder.  “Right.  Better head off now...Right….Bye”, and he turns and walks back into the living room, a confused frown on his face, where Carmel waits for him.

 “Is everything okay?” I hear her ask as they make their way onto the landing, to which John mutters “What, no…yes, fine.  It’s all…fine.”

 “Bye!” I call around a mouthful of chocolate, cream, and pastry.  I finish the éclair, and place the box with the remaining two back in the fridge.  They will keep.  In the mean time, I am feeling pretty confident that, while John will be the perfect gentleman with his cat loving physiotherapist, he will no doubt have thoughts of me during his date, and that leaves me feeling very happy indeed.  It almost feels as good as two nicotine patches.

 


	4. Look At It This Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock uses whatever means necessary to get John to spend more time looking at as much of the Detective as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't watched the movie The Secret Window and plan on it, beware...this chapter ruins the ending!! Sorry.
> 
> Also, a big THANKS-A-BUNCHLY to leyley09 for editing this chapter for me.

~~~~~~~~~~

 

The date hadn't gone well.  First, the lunch.  It turns out that Carmel is a vegetarian.  How this didn't come up when they shared their previous meal together, I will never know, but apparently John’s steak was the perfect opportunity to start a rant on the rights of animals and the sheer stupidity and cruelty of humans and their self-righteous attitudes in thinking that they have the right to remove the life of _any_ living thing.  It is here that I point out to John that the lettuce in her salad had once been alive and it was surely pulled from the ground and chopped up before it was ready to wither and die naturally.  He appreciates it when I support his arguments, and I hate stupid people who think that animals are equals with humans.  There is a reason that we are at the top of the food chain.  John had left half of his meal, just so she would shut up.

 She then started again when John offered to pay for lunch.  Apparently, Carmel is also a feminist.  She strongly informed John that she was a strong, free, educated, self-sufficient woman who is able to make her own way in the world.  She does not need a man to " _keep_ " her. (John actually inserted air quotes around the word _keep_.) John refused to hold the door open for her as they left the restaurant.  John smiles when I tell him that she will definitely be self- sufficient when she is home alone tonight.    

 John couldn't have been happier when they reached the music festival.  It was finally something that they had in common.  Well, so he thought.  As it turned out, John’s views on jazz music, which consists mainly of jazz music from the 60’s through to the late 80’s, conflicted strongly with Carmel’s, which turns out to be something that is actually modern R&B.  Carmel spent the afternoon wondering when the _real_ jazz was happening.

 When Carmel suggested they find somewhere nice for dinner before heading back to London, John told her that he really needed to get home, as he has an early shift at the clinic on Sunday.  If it had occurred to Carmel that the clinic was not open on Sunday, she didn't mention it.

 “And who,” John was really worked up at this point, “who is not sixteen, has a pink car with kitten accessories?”  I hid my smirk behind the newspaper I was reading and agreed with a serious sounding, “Hmmm.”

 That was three nights ago.  Carmel hasn't been mentioned since.  And he doesn't seem to be bothered by it either, not that he has had time.  Sunday morning had brought a case.  Two murders with nothing in common, except that both had something of the other victims at the crime scene, even though the victims (one was strangled, the other was stabbed) had never met nor had anything in common.  They were both picked at random.  It had taken until late last night, or early this morning if you wanted to be technical, to solve, and now the murderer is currently behind bars.

 The whole time I had managed to flirt with John using my oral cues, and am happy to say that it hadn't affected the work at all, apart from me having to snap John back to attention a couple of times after I overdid the flirting a bit.

 I have now decided, as I lay in bed after a very satisfactory morning wank, that it is time to up the seduction plan to the next level.  I know that John likes to watch my mouth when I talk, lick my lips, eat….anything really that I do with my lips, teeth or tongue, but on the odd occasion I have caught him looking at other areas as well.  I know what clothes he prefers me wearing, and he watches my hands when I run them through my hair.  He loves watching me play the violin, and, on the odd occasion, I have observed him staring at me when he has been under the assumption that I am in my mind palace.  (I don’t ruin the illusion by informing him that I am just ignoring the boredom.)  I have also noticed his gaze dropping when I bend over at a crime scene every now and then.  He should really take note of what reflective surfaces are surrounding him.  Lucky, for me John isn't as observant as I am, otherwise this plan would not be running as smoothly as it is.

 Slowly, I get out of bed and make my way into the bathroom.  John has already risen, showered, and left for work half an hour ago.  It was him moving about that had woken me up.  It was the thought of him naked in the shower that had got me hard.  It was after he had left that I finally did something about the erection that had been painfully hard by the time John finally closed the door to 221B Baker Street; therefore, I wasn't obliged to muffle my moans.  Hopefully, if Mrs Hudson heard anything, she would just assume that I had injured myself….again.  It happened so often that she had stopped coming up to check on me whenever she heard a thump or a cry.

 After showering, I towel off and stroll back into my bedroom, naked.  I slowly go through the clothes in my wardrobe and plan the coming week’s outfits.  I pick the tightest pants and the shortest jackets.  I choose several shirts that only just button up.  These are shirts that I would purposely wear when I want middle-aged, bored housewives to answer my questions or free drinks on the odd occasion I visit a club.  And although John doesn't appreciate me using methods such as these to manipulate people, he does appreciate me wearing these clothes.  He studies me 63% more when I wear these specific shirts, and is 83% less aware that he is doing so.

 I check the time.  It isn't even midday.  John won’t be home for another four hours.  I stroll out to the kitchen, still as bare as the day I was born, and fix myself a cup of tea, then I stroll back into the bathroom and start playing with my hair.  It will need to be cut soon.  I run a comb through it, and then pull out several bottles of hair product, studying each one.  “Nope”, I say aloud as I put one back in the cupboard; “Nope”, I say again as the next jar joins the first bottle.  I have returned three more tubs and bottles of goop when I settle on a styling foam that would control my curls but leave them light and silky.  It has the added benefit of smelling like honey.  John likes honey.  Not as much as jam, but I cannot imagine that jam is an enticing fragrance for someone’s hair.  I take a sip of my tea and then proceed to run the foam through my hair, contorting the curls to sit like they haven’t been purposely styled.  Happy with the effect, I pick up my shaving foam and lather my face, then set to work removing all unwanted hair on my face.  I finish my tea, and then brush my teeth, making the extra effort to floss.  These are steps that I will make sure to carry out every day while my plan is in progress-  even days that I feel the need to lounge around in my pyjamas.  I then make my way back into the bedroom.  Deciding on the charcoal suit with the off white shirt, I forego the jacket, as I have no intentions of leaving the flat, and roll the sleeves up.

 Since John is not home, I decide to work on the gall bladder that I have sitting in the fridge.

 Three and a half hours later, I hear John come home, making his way up the stairs, so I stop with the conjunctivitis samples I have been studying and go stand in front of the living room window looking down at the street, hands clasped behind my back, my profile highlighted by the light coming in through the window.  It works.  John opens the door and stands there, saying nothing, for eight seconds before moving into the flat and taking off his jacket.  I wait until he has hung up his jacket and slips off his shoes before turning around to greet him.  “John”, I say, nodding my head in salutation and make my way over to my arm chair, sinking down into it.  I sit up straight, arms resting gently on the arms of the chair, one leg elegantly draped over the other.

 “Sherlock”, John returns, followed by his tongue slipping out to wet his lips as he turns into the kitchen.  “Tea?” he asks, but he is already taking two cups out of the cupboard before I call out a “yes, thank you.”

 John sets about making tea and starts to inform me about his day.  I lean toward him as he hands me my cup of tea, and he stops talking briefly, just for half a second, as he inhales, smelling my hair, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.  I pretend not to notice, and he continues talking.  “..and I honestly believe that she still thinks she has prostate cancer, all because her symptoms matched what the internet said was typical of prostate cancer”, John finishes off.

 I huff out what could have been a laugh, but will more likely be taken as what it was…derision.  The stupidity of some people really does surprise me.  It shouldn't, but it does.

 “She obviously didn't take notice of one symptom: erectile dysfunction” John mutters into his tea, and a certain part of my body twitches at the sound of John saying erectile.  I frown into my cup of tea as I remind myself that a) there is nothing erotic about that word in particular, and b) it was followed by the word dysfunction.

 “So”, John asks looking up at me, and I notice that his gaze slowed, just a fraction, along my torso.  He licked his lips.  “How was your day?”

 I shrug indifferently.  “Boring.  I exploded a gall bladder in the microwave oven.” I look away from John’s glare. “It’s been removed and cleaned”, I tell him with a sigh as I look back down into my cup.  “That’s it really.  I was hoping Lestrade would call, but so far, no such luck.”

 John frowns.  “We only finished a case last night.”

 Again, I shrug.  “You worked at the clinic yesterday.”

 John frowns again.  “No, I didn't.  I was with you.”

 I wave the comment off with my hand.  “Well, you were meant to work yesterday.  You would have been at the clinic if you hadn't been with me.”

 “Point taken”, John answers.  This throws me a bit.  I was expecting the ‘ _Yeah, but my job is six to eight hours a day and doesn't have me running around London all night_ ’ speech, but he just continues to drink his tea.  I study his face.  He looks tired.

 “I suppose a quiet night with Chinese and a horribly predictable movie wouldn't be too terrible”, I tell him, and his mood instantly picks up.

 “Sounds perfect”, he says with a small smile.  So, two hours later I find myself in my room, pyjama bottoms on, deciding if I should forego the tee-shirt tonight or if it is too soon, while John is in the living room ordering our dinner.  After minutes of deliberation, I opt to wear it and forego the dressing gown.  If I lay on the couch, I can wriggle around to get comfortable, causing the top to ride up just enough to get John’s attention.

 I stride out of the room and flop onto the couch while John goes through the box of DVDs.  “Any preference?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me.  His gaze sweeps over my body, lingering over my hips- I purposely have my pants riding lower than normal- before meeting my eyes with his.

 “As long as it is not that ridiculously long movie about the paraplegic and the blue people again”, I tell him.  John turns back to the box of movies and rifles through it again.

 “How about this one?” he asks holding up the rectangular case with _Secret Window_ written across it.  “It has an unexpected twist at the end of it”, John says, sounding almost hopeful.

 I let out a doubtful hum.  “If you say so.”  By the time John has put the DVD in the player and organised a glass of water for me and a bottle of beer for himself, the doorbell rings.

 “I’ll grab it”, he says and heads out of the living room. While he is gone, I sit up and stretch my legs, pulling the leg of my pants up just a bit, and arrange my top so the left shoulder is pulled down, revealing my collar bone.  I quickly ruffle the back of my hair and settle back, just before John walks back into the living room with a bag full of food.  He sets the bag on the coffee table and sits next to me while he sorts out the order, placing the spring rolls on the table, putting his own plum duck next to it, and turning to hand me my beef and black bean.  His fluid motion comes to a stuttering halt when he is practically facing my bare clavicle.  A small frown takes over his face, and he looks away as he hands me my meal.  He is uncomfortable.  I am glad I opted for the tee-shirt after all.

 “Ready?” he asks, facing back towards the telly.  All of the things that that one word could be asking run through my head.  Unfortunately, he is only talking about the movie.  I nod, and John lifts the remote and pushes play.  He hands me my chopsticks and sits back to watch the movie.  We are not even half an hour into it when I tell John.  “It’s him, Mort.  He is doing it.” I smile as John splutters.  “How …. what….how did you possibly guess that?”

 I shrug and stuff a piece of baby corn into my mouth.  I don’t tell him that the movie was on TV the other month, when I was down with the flu and John was in Cornwall.  I hadn't guessed the ending at the time, but I still believe that it was because I was dreadfully ill.

 

~o~

 

“How did you actually miss that?” I snarl at Anderson.  “Seven legs does not equal three bodies.  What it does mean is that there is a body, minus a leg, missing from the scene.”

 I can practically see smoke coming out of Anderson’s ears.  “We hadn't finished analysing the scene”, he spits.  “We were still working through this bloodbath when you arrived.”

 “Yes, and I saw straight away that there was one too many limbs for the amount of victims present.”

 “Well, we are not all as desensitised to such grisly scenes like this, unlike you.” Anderson snaps.

 “You work in homicide, you have done so for at least seven years now, and I do use the term ‘ _work_ ’ loosely.  If you can’t handle a scene such as this then you should probably ….”

 “Alright boys”, John’s calm words cut off the rest of my sentence. “How about we put the bickering aside for now and concentrate on what happened here, because I for one don’t really want to spend any longer than I have to here.”

 I glare at Anderson for a few more seconds, and then spin away from him to view the scene before me.  Three bodies, actual bodies with torso and head intact, limbs butchered off and left in no discernible pattern.  The bodies present were all male and Asian, aging between 25 and 40.  The left-over leg, however, belonged to a woman.  Right leg, toenails painted bright pink and glittery, love heart tattooed on the outer ankle, anklet and toe-ring still adorned the limb.

 I study the room.  It is fairly non-descript.  Magnolia coloured walls, now decorated with a smattering of blood, polished woodwork, only one door leading in.  Standard size window, no curtains or blinds.  The room is completely devoid of all furniture, except the floor to ceiling wardrobe.  “What’s in there?” I ask Lestrade, pointing to the piece of furniture.

 “Nothing” Lestrade answers.  “At least, not in the lower portions.  Donovan has gone to get a step ladder so we can look in the upper cupboards”

 I roll my eyes.  “Even without a ladder, it should be clear if there is a body stuffed in there”, I tell him snidely and stride over to the wardrobe.  I have my hands placed in my pockets, as it lifts my jacket up so it sits on my waist rather than covering my arse.  I have foregone my coat, and I can practically feel John’s eyes following me as I come to a halt in front of the cupboard.  I take my hands out of my pockets, but pull my jacket forward, discretely, so it doesn't fall back into place when I reach up (admittedly even for me it is a stretch) and open the doors to the cupboard.  As I expect, there is the missing body.  What is unexpected is the body rolling out of the cupboard and landing on me.  I stumble back as the body hits me, and it falls to the floor with a dull _thud_.

 “Jesus Christ”, I hear Lestrade mutter as he comes next to me.

 “And there is body number four,” I mutter, as I look down at the blood and god knows what else smeared all over my shirt.  I like this shirt.  It is a good fit, and the dark blue usually gets me the attention that I am after.  It certainly had with John, after I had stepped out of my bedroom this morning.  I hope the drycleaners will be able to get the stains out.

 “And number five”, John says, coming to stand next to me.

 I look up to where John and Lestrade are looking and see that, yes, there most certainly is another body stuffed into the cupboard.  I take two large steps back, careful not to trip on any of the severed limbs that have been thrown around, to get a better look.  The girl in the cupboard is also Asian.  Fortunately, she hasn't been butchered like all of the others had.  Unfortunately, she can’t be any older than fifteen years old.

 “I have seen all I need to here”, I inform Lestrade.  “Let me know when the bodies have been moved to the morgue, so I can have a closer look.  John!” I call as I turn around and make my way out of the room.  Before long, I hear John catching up to me.

 “What the hell happened in there?” John asks as I flag down a taxi.

 “Someone wiped out an entire family.  That is what happened in there”, I inform him as I climb into the cab.  “Take off your jacket”, I tell him as I slip out of mine.  “The dry cleaners on Betterton Street”, I instruct the cabbie as I unbutton the cuffs on my shirt.  Today’s misfortune seems to have worked in my favour.  If all goes well, it will be worth the loss of one of my favourite shirts.

 “What are you doing?” John asks.  His eyes have practically doubled in size as he watches me start on the buttons running down the front of my shirt.

 “I need to get these to the dry cleaners as soon as possible.  I really like this shirt; I would hate to have to throw it out.”  I make myself sound genuinely concerned.  “But I will need something else to put on, so unless you want to hand over your shirt, I am going to need your jacket.”  I finish undoing the buttons and slip the shirt off of my shoulders.  John is just staring, a frown on his face, eyes focused on the window besides me.  He seems to be having trouble swallowing whatever has lodged itself in his throat.  Interesting.  He has seen me shirtless before, granted he has never been this close, but all the same, he has never reacted quite like this.

 “John, as much as I appreciate the fact that the cabbie has the heat on in here, it is still quite cool, so if you would be so kind as to hand over either your jacket or your shirt.”

 This seems to knock John out of his stupor, and he unzips his jacket, looking away from me.  “Right…yes…jacket”, and he slips it off and hands it over, still not looking at me.  I take the jacket from him and zip it up.  It is surprisingly warm and comfortable, despite being three inches too short in the arms, and it smells like John.  Definitely worth the damaged shirt.

 We travel to the dry cleaners in silence.  John looks out of his window the whole time, one hand propping his head up, the other balled up in his lap.  When we arrive at the little shop, I tell the cabbie to wait and run inside, handing over my shirt and jacket while explaining what happened in as little detail as possible before running back to the taxi.  Again, we travel in silence until we reach Baker Street.

 

~o~

 

The case was solved the following day.  The men of the family had tried to leave a drug trafficking organisation and brought their family over to England to start a new life under a new name.  The people running said organisation hadn't appreciated that and had taken it out on the entire family.  Only, they had been sloppy, in more ways than one.  They had been caught at Heathrow, trying to leave the country.

 Now, John and I are case free.  The adrenalin of the case has worn off, and boredom is setting in.  It is time to continue with my seduction plan.

 John is sitting in his armchair, doing the daily crossword puzzle from yesterday.  I am laying on the couch trying to eat left-over Indian, with chopsticks, while laying down.  It is not long before a chunk of chicken Korma falls from my chopsticks and lands with a tiny _splat_ on my chest.

 “How do you miss a mouth that big?” John muses from his chair, and looks back down to his crossword, pen end in his mouth and grin on his face, ignoring the glare I have thrown at him.  Putting the curry to the side, I sit up and take my pyjama top off, bundle it up, and chuck it in the direction of the kitchen.  It doesn't get very far.  I then lie back down and continue trying to eat my chicken.

 I can feel rather than see John looking at me.  I pretend that I don’t notice.  I stretch my neck forward to reach my food better, and then lie back down.  As I chew, the hand holding the chopsticks absently rubs over my chest.  I then stretch my neck back, so it is as exposed as possible, as I swallow the food.  I repeat the process, going as slow as possible, until I decide I don’t actually want any more to eat.  John’s gaze has hardly left me the whole time.

 I drop the takeaway container and chopsticks on the floor next to me, and then lay my head back and close my eyes and rest my hands on my stomach.  There is absolute silence in the flat, not even the rustle of the newspaper in John’s hand; it stays that way for three more minutes before John stands up.  For a brief second, I think he is going to walk over to me, and the butterflies in my stomach start up again, but instead he heads towards the stairs.  “I'm done for the night”, he calls, sounding disappointingly calm. “You’ll want to put that top in the wash tonight, otherwise it will stain.  Night.”  And he makes his way up the stairs to his room.

 I get up and chuck the top, along with a few more items of clothing, in the washer and make my way to bed.  It has been a long day.  I climb under the sheets, turn out the lamp, and close my eyes, ready to fall asleep.  That is when I hear it.  A muffled moan from above me.  I sigh.  I _was_ ready to go to sleep, but knowing what John has just been doing has gotten me highly aroused ;instead of sleeping, I find myself shoving my hand down my pants.  It is not long before I follow John’s moan with a much quieter one of my own.

 

~o~

 

“How do you manage these things?” John asks as he squats behind me, inspecting the gash on the back of my thigh under the street lamp.

 “I can’t help it if the City of London doesn't go around removing all of the long, pointy nails sticking out of all of the buildings.”

 “You’re going to need to go to A&E.  That is going to need stitches”, John informs me.

 “Rubbish”, I tell him. “You can do it back at the flat.”

 John sighs.  “You are going to need a tetanus shot.  The nail was rusty….”

 “I had one three months ago, when I cut my hand open on the razor wire during the Hutchinson case.”  I can envision his hand rubbing over tired eyes as John weighs it all up.

 “Fine”, John finally concedes, straightening up.  “Just let me get something to wrap it, otherwise it is going to make a mess on everything.” With that, he walks over to Lestrade.  It appears that the DI carries a first aid kit in his car because John comes back with a wad of gauze and a roll of bandages.  He proceeds to pad the wound and wrap it.  “Alright, let’s go.”

 He sounds tired, and I sort of feel guilty because now he has to stay up and patch me up, but then I think that the wait at the hospital would be much longer. The small amount of guilt that was there fades away.  I follow John to the main road and hail a taxi.  It isn't long before we are on our way back to Baker Street.

 “Right, trousers off, on your stomach, on the couch”, John instructs.  “I’ll get my first aid kit.”

 I walk over to the couch and start to unbutton my trousers, then stop.  I wore my tight, _tight_ trousers today.  No pants.  The options run through my head.

 Option: Go to my room and grab a pair of pants.

 Conclusion: My leg hurts, and I really just want to get off of it.

 Option:  Call out to John and ask him to grab a pair.

 Conclusion:  He will have his hands full and so will tell me to piss off and stop being a lazy git and to get the pants myself.

 Option:  Go pant-less.

 Conclusion:  My shirt tails will cover most things, and John is a doctor.  He has seen it all anyways.

 I go with option number three, and I tell myself it has nothing to do with my attempt at trying to seduce the doctor.  It really is the most practical decision.  Really, it is.

 My mind made up, I kick off my shoes and slide off my socks.  Bending over stretches the skin on my thigh, and I stand up quickly, a hiss of pain leaving my lips. I unwrap the bandage from my leg and unbutton my trousers, dropping them down to the ground and  kicking them out of the way with my good leg.  I position myself on the couch, facing down as John instructed, and pull my shirt down as far as it will go, covering up my arse cheeks.  Just.

 A few minutes later, John walks in and kneels down next to me, placing the first aid kit in front of him.  He organises the suture kit, and then turns to clean the wound.  I tense up, expecting it to sting, but there is nothing.

 “Sherlock”, John says, sounding unsure.  Something is wrong.  The damage must be worse than he first thought.  Before I can voice my concerns, John speaks again.  “Are you wearing pants?”

 “Will the answer affect the outcome of this procedure?” I ask.

 John hesitates and then says “No.”

 “Then why are you worried about it?  Just fix the leg.”

 John sighs, then changes position so he is facing my feet rather than my head. This causes another dilemma, as he now has to lean his arm across my bum and upper thigh, rather than across the back of my knees and upper calves.  “Can you put pants on before we start this?” he asks, finally giving in to the fact that he can’t do this without either touching or looking at my bare bum.

 “Nope, just get on with it John”, I say, and I am glad that he can’t see the smile on my face.

 John lets out a small sigh, and then again tries to find a comfortable position.  He ends up angling himself so his arm rests wholly on my upper thighs, avoiding my bum altogether.  It makes the job slower, and it can’t be comfortable for him, but eight stitches later, he cleans up and tells me to take it easy to avoid tearing the sutures.  He will check it in a week, and then he goes into the bathroom and I hear the shower running.

 I roll over onto my back, thankful for the local anaesthetic as I barely feel the wound pinch as my skin catches on the leather of the couch.  I stretch my upper body as I calculate that John will spend an extra six minutes in the shower.  The thought of why makes my cock, which is already half hard, twitch. Eighteen minutes in total.  My hand slides down and wraps around my penis.  Three pumps, and it is able to stand on its own.  Do I take the risk and continue on the couch, or do I move it to my room?  Sixteen minutes left.  My hand pumps again, slowly down, quickly up.  The thought of getting caught by John sends a pulse right down to my cock, and I groan.  On the couch it is.  My hand continues its travels down and back up my cock.  The foreskin is retracted, and the head is glistening with a drop of pre-come.  My hand moves quicker, smearing the sticky white liquid down, lubricating the shaft, allowing for smoother movements.  I think of John in the shower, _his own hand around his own cock.  His other hand bracing against the wall.  Or maybe he likes anal stimulation.  Maybe he has three fingers up his arse, right now, fucking himself while he thinks about me.  His other hand mirroring my own movements.  Down, up, down, up, over the head and back down_.  The feeling of my hand going faster, the thought of John pushing down onto his fingers and then back up into his other hand.  My thumb teases the slit at the end, gathering up more pre-come.  Ten minutes to go.  My movements become erratic moving faster over my cock.  I think of John, _water running down his bare back, his cock in his left hand, the fingers of his right hand stretching him wider.  His head is thrown back, his eyes closed.  His breathing is laboured, coming out in small pants and gasps of pleasure leave his parted lips.  His hand moves faster over his cock as he groans, and he pushes his fingers further in, finding his prostate.  John’s eyes snap open, and his mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ as pleasure washes over his body. His left hand moves faster as he finds that little bundle of nerves again.  Three more pumps, and his back is arching, come jetting out of the end of his cock as my name leaves his mouth in a hoarse cry._

 At the thought of John crying my name as he comes, I feel my own back arch and my stomach tighten as hot come spills out into my hand, drops splattering up over my shirt front.  I let out a deep throaty groan, and my body slowly relaxes back into the couch.  As I get my breathing back under control, I wipe my hand on my shirt and calculate that I have less than two minutes.  Sure enough, just over a minute later the water shuts off.  I should probably get off the couch and go to my room before John walks out.  I don’t really feel like explaining why I am lying on my back with come drying on my shirt, so I stand up and walk towards my room.  Just as I reach my bedroom door, the bathroom door opens up behind me.

 “Goodnight, John”, I yawn as I open the door and enter my room.   I make a show of pulling my shirt down from where it is rucked up around my waist before shutting the door.  John Watson just got a full view of my arse.  I smile as I note that there was a distinct lack of breathing coming from behind me.

 


	5. Helping You Is Helping Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries his hand at being considerate and helpful in order to make it clear that John is appreciated, at the same time managing to pick up a small, but odd, kink along the way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now edited thanks to the marvellous leyley09. I now know that it is best not split my infinitives! ;)

~~~~~~~~~~

John has been avoiding me since last night, but I am not worried about the fact at all.  There is definitely not a niggling in the back of my mind that is whispering ' _Bit not good_.'  He left early for work - I am not sure why as I don’t generally make it habit to rise before him when I have no work - and it is almost seven o'clock in the evening; there is still no sign of him.  He did send a message earlier saying he would be home late.  I chose not to press any further.

 I have decided to tamp down my efforts of seduction, just a bit.  As amusing as it is, making John uncomfortable is not actually conducive to my experiment.  I need him to be comfortable.  Comfortable enough to make the first step in moving our relationship up.  It needs to be him that does it, otherwise I risk pushing it too far, too soon.  I know myself.  I know that I am an impatient man, and that can sometimes hasten my actions.  But this is not about me.  Well, it is, but it is also about John; therefore, it is of the utmost importance that this moves along at a pace with which John is comfortable.  If it were only up to me, I would have pushed him onto my bed after the first indecent thought.

 So!  Pants are to be worn at all times.  The overly fitted trousers have been relocated to the back of the wardrobe.  No overly suggestive consumption of foods.  No more masturbating on the couch.  At least, not while John is home.

 The trick, now, is to get John’s attention in a more subtle way.  I need to get him to think that I appreciate him.  Well, I do appreciate him, but I need to make it more obvious.  After all, John isn't the most observant person out there, although he is getting better.

 Step one of this phase includes me rearranging the fridge.  All experimental samples are placed in containers, labelled, and put on the lower shelf so if they should leak they will not contaminate any food items.  I also throw out a mouldy orange and a carton of god-knows–what.  I think it was chow mein, but I can’t be sure.  It was inedible, regardless.  The mould cultures growing in the little carton could be extremely fascinating, but it would not appease John at all, so in the bin it goes.

 I then clear off half of the kitchen table, leaving only the essentials of my equipment out.  Following that, I wash the dishes.  I am not able to find the dish washing liquid; I use some of John’s body wash instead.  Surely there can’t be that much difference; who knows?  That could make for a semi-interesting experiment later on.  I say semi-interesting...sometimes I just get really bored.

 Once all of that is done, I do a quick tidy of the living area.  Nothing too special, but I am sure John will appreciate it all the same.  I look to the clock. Half past ten.  I thought John would have been home by now.  Surely he wasn't that embarrassed last night.  I pick up my violin and start playing.  A piece I composed in my early twenties.  It’s a moderately paced tune that helps me think.  Not overly complicated, but still complicated enough to keep my brain on track.  Twenty five minutes later, I hear the downstairs door open and John makes his way up the stairs.  I stand at the window, finishing off my piece, and listen as John takes off his jacket and goes into the kitchen.  I drag my bow down over the A string, drawing out the final note and gently lower the bow down.

 “Tea?” John calls out, even though I know he is making me one.

 “Mmm” I reply, lowering the violin down from my shoulder and gently placing it on the desk next to me.  “Good evening out?” I ask, finally turning around to face him.  He looks tired and stressed.  Not the kind of stressed caused by me walking about the flat practically naked.  I move closer.  I can smell wine, but John hasn't been drinking.  There is a dark stain on his shirt, hard to see from a distance as the shirt itself is dark.  The back of his hair is mussed from where he has been running his hand through it, so a familiar stress.

 “I wouldn't say so, no” John answers, handing me my cup of tea.

 “So Harry is drinking again, I see.”

 John sighs and carries his tea into the living room and sits in his chair.  I follow suit.  “It appears so”, John replies.  “She rang me at work, all tears.  At least she was coherent.  By the time I got there, she was well and truly past trashed and on the way to violently angry.”

 “So the new girlfriend left her then.”

 John hums in confirmation.  A small frown furrows my brow.  Harry’s tantrum has thrown a spanner in the works.  John seems completely oblivious to all of my hard work.

 “She didn't hurt you?”  I ask.  I can’t see any indication of injury, but on the odd occasion, and I do mean odd, John has managed to hide injury from me.  He shakes his head.

 “No,  I managed to get her calmed down, and a friend of hers is staying with her while she sleeps it off.  I suppose I was lucky to walk away with only having a glass of wine thrown at me.  And I do actually mean the glass thrown at me, not just the drink.”

 Maybe this can work in my favour.  “You’ll never get that wine stain out of your shirt”, I tell him.  “I have to go take some things down to the dry cleaners tomorrow.  I will take it with me and see if they can get it clean.  Just leave it on the table before you go to bed.”  Then I drain the rest of my tea and stand up.  “I am going to bed.  Goodnight.”

 I am halfway to the kitchen, where I fully intend to place my cup in the sink, when John stops me.  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  _Me_?  John is asking me if _I_ am okay.  Confused, I turn to look at John, who has turned on his seat to look at me.  I cock a querying eyebrow in response to his question.

 “You sorted out the fridge, did the dishes, tidied the loungeroom, and offered to take my shirt to the dry cleaners.  And now you are going to bed and it is only…” he looks at his watch “…just gone eleven.  Is there something I should be worried about?”

 I keep the satisfied grin off my face.  He had noticed after all.  “Just tired, John.  I've had a busy day.”

 John seems sceptical, but accepts my answer anyway.  He goes to turn back around, but then looks to me again.  “Did you by any chance use my shower gel to do the dishes?” he asks.  I can see him trying not to grin, and my cheeks, for some horrible reason, start to warm.  I turn and place my cup in the sink, noting that it does, actually, still smell like pear and lemongrass in here.  “I couldn't find the dish washing liquid”, I mumble.

 “Cupboard above your head”, John replies, and I can hear the laughter, just under the surface of his voice.  He seems to sense my silence as being offended, which I think that I am, just a little bit, because he stands and looks at me, and all traces of laughter are gone.  “Thank you Sherlock.  I really do appreciate it.”

 I give him a short nod and head off towards my room.  “Good night”, I mumble as I open my door and step in.  I hear John’s “Night, Sherlock” as I shut the door.

 I change out of my clothes and into my pyjamas and climb into bed.  John did honestly appreciate the effort I had put in tonight.  I can definitely work with this.

 

~o~

 

The following two days are an up and down of promising case work, which turn out to be disappointingly easy, and downtime, which I would normally find boring and tedious.  I actually do still find it boring and tedious, but, due to the fact that I am trying to get John to notice that I do appreciate him, the down time is being used to work on my plan.

 Throughout that time I have made an effort to do two runs to Tesco.  Now I remember why I let John do that.  On both of those trips, I make sure to buy milk and bananas.  It seems, since my display before the cat lover fiasco, John has been craving bananas as they are always in the fruit bowl.  I also tidy up my old case notes and make cups of tea.

 The day after the run of (boring) cases, I scrub the bathroom clean; granted I did use the bathtub to soak a rabbit carcass in quite a large amount of mouthwash.  The bathroom still smells very minty.  I have also cooked dinner.  I don’t do an overly complicated recipe because if John finds out that I can actually cook, and very well at that, he might expect it on a regular basis.  I am holding that particular card to my chest until I absolutely have to play it.

 Today, John comes down stairs with a basket full of washing and makes his way into the kitchen to start sorting his lights from his darks.  “Do you have anything that can be normal washed?” John asks without looking up.  I stand to go and get the few items that I do have and then change my mind.

 “That’s fine, John.  I can do mine when you have finished yours”, I say distractedly as I go back to the journal I was reading.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see John pause what he was doing and turn his head to me.

 “Are you sure you are okay?” he asks.  This has been asked repeatedly over the past two days.

 “Perfectly”, I mutter, tapping the pen in my hand against my bottom lip as I re-read the correction I just made to the article.  It was the eighth one so far. John still stares at anything to do with my mouth.  It is getting easier to suppress the small smirks.

 “Let’s go out”, I suggest suddenly, dropping the pen and journal onto the table in front of me.

 “Reason?” John asks, setting the machine to wash and putting the unwashed whites back in the basket.

 “It’s not raining”, I tell him.  I actually want a reason just to be close to him, and that doesn't happen in the flat; a walk would be an ideal excuse.

 “It’s not raining lots of days, but you have never wanted to just go out on any of those days.”

 He is right.  “Well, today I feel like going for a walk.  I just thought you might like to join me.”

 John looked down at his washing and then back up at me.  “Sure, fine.  This will take over an hour to finish.  I don’t have anything else on.”

 I bite my bottom lip at that image.  John, with nothing else on.  My thoughts go to ways I could ' _accidentally'_ walk in on John while he has nothing on.  I don’t think he would appreciate me walking into the bathroom and yanking open the shower curtain while he was in the shower.  He has this thing about personal space.

 “Earth to Sherlock.  We still on for that walk?”  I snap out of my day dream, and look to John, a confused frown on my face.  He is quite close with a worried look on his face.  “You really need to stop doing that”, he says, taking a step back from me.

 “Doing what?” I ask, tensing slightly.  What did I do?  Did I say something out loud?

 “Just phasing out mid conversation.  I get the whole mind palace thing, but a bit of warning would be nice.”

 I relax and give a quick nod and take that into consideration. _Let John know when I am ignoring him_.  Right! It’s a futile promise, as most of the time I am not aware that I am doing it until after it is done.

 “So, you coming or not?” John asks, and it occurs to me that he is no longer in front of me, but has moved to the door and is slipping his jacket on.   _Let John know when I am ignoring him_ starting from now!

 I quickly stand up and join him, sliding my own jacket on and looping my scarf around my neck.

 “Of course, John.  It was my suggestion, after all.  Come along”, and I turn around and bound down the stairs.

 It is quite crisp outside; I start to wish I had grabbed my gloves, but I really cannot be bothered going back to the flat to get them. Instead, I shove my hands into my coat pocket.

 For a block and a half, we walk in silence.  I don’t have any particular destination in mind, but we do seem to be heading in the general direction of Regent’s Park.  Then John breaks the silence.

 “So, what is with all of the….consideration and…stuff, lately?” he asks looking straight ahead, hands in his pockets and shoulders slightly hunched against the cold.

 “I don’t know what you mean.” I feign innocence, completely ignorant to what he is insinuating.

 He huffs out a laugh.  “Sherlock.  You cleaned the house; you do your own washing; hell, you even cooked last night.  It was really good, by the way.  Now that I know you can do it, I do expect it more often.” He says the last part like he expects it, but knows it will never happen.  “Hell, Sherlock, you have even been making me tea.  You never make tea.  If you wake up before me, you wait until I get up so I can make _you_ tea.  Don’t get me wrong; I'm not complaining, but I just want to make sure everything is alright.”  It actually surprises me that John has caught on to that little trick about the tea.

 We walk along in silence.  What could I tell him?  I can’t just blurt out “J _ohn, I am obsessed with you, and I am doing this so you will fuck me_.”  I don’t see that going well at all.  So, I shrug it off.  “I just thought I would give a try at being a more considerate person.  It has recently been brought to my attention that I am often lazy and selfish.”

 At this, John laughs out loud, and it truly is a wonderful sound.  “Only recently.  From what I can gather, you have been like that all your life.”

 I smile at this.  “Maybe I have only just started listening”, I say.  “But don’t get used to it.  It really is a lot of hard work, and I am not sure if I can keep it up for much longer.”  I can’t help the smile that takes over my mouth.

 John chuckles.  “Well, thank god for that.  You were starting to make me nervous.”

 We continue to walk in silence again.  I don’t know if I am imagining it or not, but I am sure that John is a tiny bit closer than before.

 After a lap of Regent’s Park, we decide to head home, as John’s washing will be well and truly finished. I am feeling quite good about myself and the progress I have made with John.  Maybe on the way back I will let my hand brush against his, just to see the reaction, and I pull my hands out of my pocket and let them hang by my side, cold fingers be damned.

 We are less than a block away from the park when my plans are ruined, and my good mood evaporates quickly.  It starts to rain, and it doesn't start with a small pitter-patter.  It suddenly starts bucketing down.  I hail a taxi and open the door, letting John slide in before me.  Pulling the door shut, I tell the cabbie our address and sit back and try to warm up.  We travel in silence, John looking out his window, but I can see his reflection and he looks happy. I suddenly find myself happy again.

 Several hours later, we are in dry clothes and sitting in the living room folding John’s washing.  “You really don’t have to do this”, John tells me for the second time.

 I do consider giving up.  It is a very menial task, but as I consider this, I pull the next item out of the basket.  John’s pants.  I look down at the item in my hand, and then up at John with an amused expression on my face.  He is blushing.  I would say it was cute, but I don’t….No.  It is definitely cute.

 “Red, John.  I never took you for someone with such vivid taste in underwear.” John takes a quick swipe for the pants, but I am faster. I lean back, laughing, holding the pants out of his reach.  “I do believe you are blushing, Doctor Watson.”

 “Give ‘em…here…prick” John laughs out, trying to grab at the pants again.  Finally, acknowledging defeat, he sits back and returns to folding the tee-shirt he had dropped in his plight to get his pants back.

 I settle back down and fold the pants neatly, placing them on the small pile of John’s clothes that I have already made.  They really are quite a soft material.  “They are very comfortable”, John says as I take my hand away from the pants.  “And I happen to like the colour.”

 I nod my head in acceptance and pull out the next item of clothing.  “Really, John?” I say holding up the offending piece of clothing.  “How many pairs of red pants does one man need?”

 

~o~

 

Needless to say, I dream of John and his red pants that night.  It doesn't help that I took a pair when he wasn't looking and neatly stashed them under my pillow.  After all, it is not like he was going to miss one pair after admitting to having six or seven pairs.  Not all the same of course, but very similar and all bright red.  It is bizarre.  I never took John to have an obsession, or dare I say kink, over a simple item of clothing.  I think it is safe to say that I now definitely have a red pants kink.

 I wake up from my dream and am not surprised that I am rock hard.  I am not even surprised that I have John’s pants in my hand.  So I take the next logical step and, after removing my pyjama bottoms, I wrap John’s pants around my erection, which is already leaking pre-come.  I hiss out a gasp as the material envelopes my cock.  It is warm and soft and so smooth.  I wrap my hand around the bright red material and slowly pump.  I take my time; I don’t want to rush this.  I am not sure if it is the feeling of the material against my skin, or the fact that this is something that has rubbed up against the most intimate parts of John’s body, or both that is making the whole act extremely arousing.

 I bend my knees up, planting my feet on the mattress, as close to the tops of my thighs as possible.  Sucking on the index and middle fingers of my free hand, I lower it down between my legs and stroke my perineum. I make my way down further until I reach my entrance.  My fingers, slick with saliva, trace light circles around my hole, and then slowly, oh so slowly, the first one pushes in.  I gasp when the finger is all the way in, and slowly I pull it out again until just the tip is inside ; then I push back in.  I do this over and over, building up a faster rhythm, adding the second finger, rubbing my other hand over the red material covering my erection in the same rhythm.  All of my nerves seem to be stretched tight and on fire.  I crook my fingers and find what I am after.  I almost cry out as the tips of my fingers swipe over my prostate, sending sparks of pleasure through my body.  I pump my fingers in and out of my body in time with the hand pumping my cock, and then crook my fingers again.  I push harder this time, and the pleasure is more intense.  I can’t stop the moan that comes out of my mouth.  I repeat this pattern, over and over until I can’t take any more.  A white heat consumes my body, and my back arches as I feel myself emptying the contents of my orgasm into the red material still wrapped around my now softening penis.  As I come down from the pleasure rush, I remove my fingers from my arse and unwrap the red pants, now soiled with my come.  I realise that I didn't do anything to muffle the cry that tore from my throat.  I quickly think back and let out a sigh of relief when I remember that I didn't call out John’s name.  I fall asleep with the red pants still clutched in my hand.

 

 


	6. The Perks of Being Touchy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock incorporates superfluous touches into everyday life in order to gain more of John's attention.
> 
> John gets really, really pissed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey my little lovelies, we are half way through, and I have been having way too much fun writing this.
> 
> A big thanks to all of your kudos and fantastic comments....it leaves a warm fuzzy feeling in my belly!! The response has been FANTASTIC and I am so glad you all like it!! I hope what is to come is as good as what has been, so without further ado, here is Chapter 6.
> 
> And a big thanks to leyley09 for touching up the mistakes and errors!!

~~~~~~~~~~

 

“Eleven days”, John says as he stirs sugar into the mug in front of him.

 “Hmm?” I ask from my position on the couch.  I turn my head in John’s general direction, but my eyes don’t leave the small water mark on the ceiling above me.  It wasn’t there last week.  I must let Mrs Hudson know.  “John, let Mrs Hudson know she has a leak in the roof.”  Mission accomplished.  “And what is eleven days?” I ask, remembering John’s odd comment from not even a minute before.

 “You”, John answers, walking into the living room.  “You were being nice and helpful for eleven days.  You did say it wouldn’t last.”  And then he waits for me to sit up and hands me my blue and white stripy mug; for the briefest moment, our fingers brush together.  The feeling sends a small shiver up my arm and down my spine.  I have just confirmed where my next move in the seduction game is headed.  Too busy noting my own reaction to the touch, I completely miss John’s.

 “And what makes you think that has all stopped?” I ask, schooling my expression back into one of indifference before John notices anything.  It was bad enough that he called me out last week on being helpful.  I need to be more careful.

 “I heard you moving around twenty minutes before I decided to get out of bed, yet here I am, making your cup of tea, as well as my own….again.”

 I frown into my mug.  “You laid about in bed for twenty minutes”, I challenge, purposely moving the topic away from me.  “That is very unlike you, John.”

 John smiles as he takes a sip of his tea.  “I was about to get up when I heard you walking about, so I thought I would stay where I was to see if you would make your own tea.  Think of it as a bit of an experiment.”

 I cock an eyebrow playfully.  “And you tell me off for experimenting on you”, I say.

 “Well, maybe not an experiment.  More of an observational study”, he rectifies with a half shrug.

 We continue to drink our tea.  “Breakfast?” John asks, breaking the silence.

 I give a little shake of my head, drain the rest of my tea, and stand up.  “Not really hungry this morning”, I tell him.  I then walk past, giving his shoulder a small squeeze on the way to the kitchen to deposit my mug in the sink before going into my bedroom.  The tensing of John’s shoulders when my hand touches him doesn’t go unnoticed.

 Now, all I have to do is think of ways to incorporate small touches into our daily life.  I want John comfortable with my touch.  It has to become natural, for both of us.  As much as I avoid touching people, it isn’t a foreign concept for me.  I just chose to distance myself from people who mean nothing to me.  But John, I would be happy to be stuck to him twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

 

~o~

 

As it turns out, I don’t need to plan anything for this phase of _Make-John-Mine_.  It occurs naturally in a way that I hadn’t even considered.

 It happens after I stumble in an alleyway, throwing my hand out to stop my fall, before continuing the pursuit of a suspect.  Unfortunately, this also lengthens the gap between me and him.  Well calculated timing on Lestrade’s part ensures that the man is caught at the other end of the alley.  It is as the DI is slapping the cuffs on the now whimpering and pleading embezzler that John notices the gash on my palm.  Doctor’s instincts kick in, and he has my hand in both of his, inspecting the wound.  His touch is warm, and my hand starts to feel tingly.  That could also be because of the injury.  “Jesus, Sherlock”, he mutters.  He takes one hand off of mine and inspects his pockets for something with which to clean my hand, but he comes up empty.  I use my good hand to dig into my coat pocket and pull out my handkerchief.  The action takes me back to the day John had sucked his own fingers into his mouth.  The moment that started this ridiculous pursuit to make John mine.  John takes the folded white linen and wipes at the cut.

 It is here that the idea occurs to me.  How this didn’t occur to me two weeks ago, when John had stitched up the back of my thigh, I am not sure, but John touches me, of his own accord, whenever I am injured.  Now all I have to do is grasp any opportunity to get injured, and play it up when it happens.  It would probably be a bit not good to purposely hurt myself, but, if I were to stop being as careful and let things happen naturally…ish, this could work splendidly.  Obviously, I have to be a bit more subtle than the couch incident, nothing below the waist and nothing too serious.  After all, I don’t want to render myself inactive, or worse, have to suffer someone other than John to tend my wounds, but it is definitely something I can manipulate to my favour.

 “Sherlock?” I suddenly realise that John has been talking to me.

 “Yes”, I answer, not sure what the question was, “Its fine, not a problem, just a scratch.”

 “Yeah, I know, that’s what I have been saying”, John tells me, sounding slightly annoyed that I wasn’t listening to him as he grabs my uninjured hand and places it over the now bloodied handkerchief.  “But I need you to hold this here for a bit while the bleeding stops.  When we get home, I will clean it and dress it.”

 I apply pressure to the wound, and then watch as John goes to discuss something with Lestrade, no doubt arranging when we (he) will come in and fulfil the taxing duty of paperwork.  A minute later, he is by my side, and we make our way out of the alley to hail a taxi.

 Back at Baker Street, John is sitting on the coffee table in front of me while he cleans the cut and places adhesive strips over it to hold the edges together.  “Try not to stretch the hand open too much”, John advises me, giving my palm one last wipe over with a damp flannel.  “It might feel like it is pinching a bit.  If it does too much, you are stretching it, so stop whatever it is you are doing, otherwise it will never close.”

 As he is about to pull his hand away, I curl my fingers around his and look up at him.  His tongue makes its usual appearance, and the corner of his mouth pull up just slightly, his eyes not leaving my hand wrapped around his fingers.  “Thank you, John”, I say quietly.

 He just gives a small nod.  “Any time”, he replies as he gently pulls his fingers free.  He stands up and starts packing things away.  I watch him as he moves around the living room and the kitchen, binning some items and cleaning others.  He seems content and not at all flustered.  This is a good sign.  He walks back into the living room and picks the first aid kit up off of the coffee table and goes to return it to the bathroom.   “Indian?” he asks after coming out of the bathroom, pulling his phone out of his pocket.

 “Fine”, I mumble, absently running my thumb over the dressing across my palm.  John places the order, and then goes into the kitchen. I get up and silently pad in behind him.

 “Tea?” he calls out, but I am already behind him, reaching around him to open the cupboard and pulling out two mugs.  “I’d love a cup”, I murmur as I put the mugs on the counter in front of John, my arm brushing his on the way down. I pull away and pad back into the living room where I drop back into my arm chair.  I watch John as he continues to make the tea.  His movements don’t seems as fluid as they usually are.  He seems somewhat unsure of what he should do next.

 Conclusion:  Hand holding is fine.  Completely crowding his personal space, not so much.   Yet.

 Dinner is a rather unsuccessful event.  The meal is delivered, and we sit on the couch and eat in relative silence as some random show about three men and their cars plays in the background.  Every now and then, John chuckles at their actions, but I am paying them no attention.  I am slowly trying to inch my way closer to John without making it look like I am slowly inching my way closer to John.

 “I think that’s me for the night”, John says, suddenly standing up.  “I am knackered, and I have a shift at the clinic tomorrow.”  I only just manage to suppress my frustrated sigh as John picks up the remains of our take away, along with our mugs, and takes them into the kitchen to dispose of as necessary.

 I stand up and make my way toward my bedroom, meeting John in the kitchen just as he is about to head out to the landing to make his way up to his own room.  “Goodnight, John”, I say, again putting my hand on his shoulder as I walk past him.  Again, John’s shoulders tense, but he relaxes straight away.

 “Goodnight”, he replies and continues up to his room as I make my way to mine.

 

~o~

 

The following days are filled with case work.  In the three days it takes to solve the case of the hanging judge (as John insists on calling it), I have needed a splinter removed from my hand; received three cuts to my brow, elbow, and shoulder blade respectively (none bad enough for concern, but enough to need attention); sprained  a wrist; and bruised a hip.  None of these injuries are self-inflicted, but they could have been avoided if I had chosen to pay more attention to what I was doing.  Throughout the last few days I have also, when I wasn’t one hundred percent focused on the case, made an effort to find a reason to make physical contact with John.  A hand to the small of the back when I usher him out of a door or up the stairs; a brush of fingers when we pass each other items; my knee accidentally knocks against his in the back of taxis; and I have kept up the nightly squeeze of his shoulder whenever John goes to bed.  I have slowly been positioning myself closer to John in the back of taxis and on the couch.  When we sit at the kitchen table, I sit next to him rather than across from him, and when he convinced me to let him stop somewhere for lunch yesterday so he could finally eat, I found a café that had ridiculously small tables so our ankles slotted in between each other’s as we sat and John ate his focaccia.  It is all working remarkably well.  John does not tense up or flinch at these ‘ _accidental_ ’ touches anymore.

 In fact, John, on two occasions, has gone out of his way to initiate unnecessary physical contact with me in the last twenty four hours.  Yesterday afternoon, we ran across an old friend of John’s, from uni.  When he introduced me, he placed his hand on the back of my arm.  The warmth from that touch spread through my arm and left a very comfortable feeling in my stomach.  Earlier today when he had sat me down and ordered me to place an ice pack on my hip, to help with the bruising and any swelling, he had looked at me with an expression so full of genuine concern and had placed his hand on my thigh, just above my knee and said, “Maybe try and be a bit more careful, yeah?”  Worried what my mouth might blurt out without express permission from my brain at the feeling of John’s hand resting so lovingly on my thigh, I kept it clamped shut and just nodded my head.  He then gave me a small, tight smile, stood up, and walked away.

 My brain went into overdrive, and, since then, I have been imagining scenarios where John’s hand did not stop just above my knee.  I have imagined acts that have ended up with John, on his knees, between my legs; John standing over me, between my legs; John bent over the coffee table; both of us rutting up against each other, like horny teenagers, on the couch; John bending me over the arm of the couch.  The possibilities are endless.  By the time I hear John coming up the stairs (I didn’t even notice that he had left the flat), it is an hour later, and I have an extremely uncomfortable hard-on and an icepack that is no longer cold but at room temperature against my aching hip.  I quickly lie down and curl up with my back to the room, mentally reciting the periodic table backwards and feign sleep.  It is obviously convincing, as John quietly makes his way into the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea, and then settles into his armchair to continue the daily crossword puzzle from two days ago. He is never going to get 16 down on his own.  “ _T Henman tried to do this with matching jumpers and cardigans_.”  I can hear him tapping the pen lightly on his lips as he thinks about the answer.  The tapping stops, briefly, and I can just imagine the tip of the pen slipping between his lips.   _John Watson and his fucking oral fixation_.  The tapping resumes again.  ‘TWINSETS’ I want to yell at him, but instead I am lying  here pretending to be asleep while trying, very unsuccessfully I might add, to will away an erection.  I have never wanted John to leave the flat so desperately since meeting the man.  On top of that, in my haste to hide my current predicament, I flopped down onto the side I usually lie  on when I am ‘ _having a sulk_ ’ as John would call it (I most certainly do _not_ sulk), which happens to be the side with which  I clipped a book shelf while chasing a fire-starting nun through the Maughan Library earlier today.  So now I have a painful erection, about which I cannot do a thing,  and a hip that has a very dull but noticeable ache but which isn’t bad enough to make my first problem go away, and, all the while, the person who is the cause of all of this is sitting behind me making me think inappropriate things.  I close my eyes and think about all of the most unerotic things I can . _Ruptured bowels; Anderson and Donovan; today’s  horoscope; Rorschach tests_ …nope, that one is not helping; _infected boils; a list of the current heads of state in Estonia, Tonga, Saint Lucia, Angola, and Myanmar in order of height; Mycroft eating cake…in speedos_.  Yep,  that has definitely done it.  Erection wilting.  I slip into my mind palace and catalogue the state of a decomposing liver from fresh out of the body to being left out in hot, humid weather for a week, noting all of the new life that has made a home on and in it.  Maggots truly are fascinating creatures.

 By the time I mentally return back to the living room of 221B Baker Street, there is considerably less light, and I can hear movement in the kitchen.  I stand up, thankfully erection free, and walk towards the bathroom.  I notice John standing at the stove, presumably cooking dinner.

 “You eating tonight?” he asks over his shoulder as he hears me shuffling through the kitchen.  “Risotto”, he clarifies.  It actually doesn’t smell too bad.

 “Sure”, I grumble, trying to sound like I had just woken up, and continue my way into the bathroom to use the toilet.  While there, I take a good look at my hip.  I did a good job.  There is a dark purple stain, about the size of my palm, and right on the crest of the bone is a small lump around an inch in diameter.

I pull up my trousers and wash my hands before leaving the bathroom.  Maybe later on I can exaggerate the pain that is there and get John to examine it a bit closer.  When I reach the kitchen table I sit across from John, rather than next to, as I really don’t want to have to explain the brand new erection that has decided to take up residence in my pants.

 

~o~

 

It takes Scotland Yard three hours and fifty four minutes to find us.  A ridiculous amount of time considering the amount of evidence and clues that they had, but impressive for Scotland Yard.  In that time, Mickey Stenson and his two goombas have cable tied my wrists together, and then, for extra measure, handcuffed me to the radiator.  John, on the other hand, has been perceived as more of a threat and rightly so (maybe Mickey isn’t as thick as he looks); therefore, he receives a pistol whip to the back of the head, rendering him unconscious, before he is gagged and then hog tied and left on the opposite side of the room from me, facing the wall.  The wait is long, but eventually John comes to.  My worrying abates only slightly when I see him move.  He flinches in pain as he tries to move his head too quickly, and then he slowly tries to look around, looking for something useful.  Something familiar.

 “John”, I call out, “are you okay?”  I hear a groan, but then I see a small nod.  “Are you able to loosen the ropes?”  He is quiet for a moment, but I can see his hands working around the ropes.  After a while, he stops.  “Mm hmm”, he answers around the gag with a slow shake of his head. I feel the need to keep talking to John, as some form of reassurance, but I don’t know what to say so I tell him what I have gleaned so far.  “I can’t make it over to you, as I am rather tied up myself”, I inform John, but he has probably come to that conclusion himself.  “Due to the fact that we are in Mickey’s basement and Lestrade knows that we were following him as a suspect, I do hold out some hope that we will be found by the police at some stage in the next hour or two.”  John makes a small noise that suggests he understands what I am saying.  “We have been here for not quite an hour, and so far the three Eskimo’s don’t seem to want to come down and beat us to a pulp on a regular basis, so, lucky for us.”  John groans at this, and I can practically hear him mutter ‘ _tell that to my head_ ' even though one crack with the butt of a gun is certainly _not_ being beaten to a pulp; I will let this one slide because I am very worried that John is not as responsive as I would like him to be. In order to calm my nerves and fill the terrifying silence that filled the room after John was rendered unconscious, I keep talking.  “I honestly think that Mickey Stenson is definitely the leader of this small organisation. From what I saw while being dragged through the house and down to the basement, he is most certainly cutting the drugs he is purchasing from Matherson with benzocaine, which means we now need to find the supplier of benzocaine, as I am sure that you are aware benzocaine isn’t readily available, especially in large quantities such as what Stenson would need for the amount of cocaine he has been buying and selling.  Do you know why they use benzocaine to cut with rather than something simple, such as baking powder?  No?  It is because the benzocaine mimics the effects of the drug by numbing the nose and mouth of the person snorting it, in the same fashion that cocaine does.  I wouldn’t actually expect you to know the effects of using cocaine, at least not on a first hand basis, although theoretically you probably know all about it being a man of medicine.  Do you know in what else benzocaine is used?  Teething gel for infants; of course the teething gel _would_ be for infants because, face it, once you have passed infancy teething is no longer a problem.  Although now officials are stating that you should avoid using teething gels with benzocaine in them because they can cause a condition known as _methemoglobinemia_ which reduces the amount of oxygen carried through the bloodstream.  Obviously this can be fatal, especially in children under the age of two years.  Again, you are probably aware of all of this…” I know I am rambling, but it is one of those rare situations that I feel completely helpless, and I desperately want to keep John awake now that he is no longer unconscious.  I have never been so desperate to reach out and physically touch someone.  I need to know that John is really okay and not just nodding every time I break my monologue to ask him.  I want to comfort him and tell him that it is going to be okay, but, as time drags on, my faith in Scotland Yard’s apparent finest is crumbling.

 I am rambling on about how hedgehogs have over 7,000 quills on their backs and am about to go into the texture of said quills when there is a large bang from up above, followed by shouting and a single gunshot which causes John to jump so hard that his knees hit the wall in front of him.  There is silence and then footsteps.  Eventually, they make their way over to the door and are half way down the steps before I know exactly who is coming down to see us.

 “Took you long enough”, I drawl, feeling quite hoarse from all of the talking that I have done, as Lestrade turns the corner to find John and I  ready to be untied and go home.

 “Well, maybe if you would let me know of your plans before you confront a dangerous drug dealer, I would have known where to look straight away”, the detective says as he walks over to John, pulling a knife out of his pocket and cutting the ropes binding John’s arms and legs.  The doctor lets out a satisfied groan as he stretches his cramped muscles and yanks out the gag. Then he turns to me, fury in his eyes.

 “You told me”, he practically seethes, and I flinch as he stalks towards me.  I note the smug look on Lestrade’s face as he makes no move to either release my bonds or stop John from attacking.  “You told me that you had sent Greg a message”, he spits.

 “I said I texted Lestrade”, I correct.

 “It’s the same person!” John yells at me, and then winces.  That obviously didn’t go down well with his throbbing head.

 I try to look at John, but I find myself looking everywhere else instead, finally settling on my tied wrists.  “I did message him”, I confirm quietly.

 Lestrade huffs out a sarcastic laugh.  “What, you mean that message that basically congratulated my team for doing their usual half-arsed job and not to worry because you would soon have the criminal apprehended.  Well, no thanks to you, we found the criminal, and, all thanks to my half-arsed team, we also found you.”  The smug look didn’t leave his face through his entire speech, but it did leave his face when John turned on him next.

 “So you got a message to say that Sherlock was going after a criminal and didn’t ring me to find out what exactly was going on?”

 Greg’s smug look leaves his face and instantly finds mine.  “What the fuck is wrong with all of you?”  Now the smug look is completely gone from both of us.  “Do none of you have any fucking common sense?”  John is beyond angry now, and his yelling has turned into a low growl. I can only assume that I now look as sheepish as Lestrade as John continues to berate us.  “For the past week, I have been dragged through the most desperate and depraved parts of London; I have been propositioned by no less than three hookers - one of them with no teeth - in dirty, dingy alleys; I have managed to get an average of two and a half hours sleep each night if I was lucky; I have had maybe three proper meals since last Friday; have cancelled a date” (I flinch and am relieved at the same time at that comment) “I have been shot at, pushed into the Thames, stepped in one large pile of horse shit, been chased by a fucking swan, had a kid throw ice cream at my head and almost been arrested for drug possession. On top of all that, I have been kidnapped, pistol whipped, and hogtied for the past four hours all the while listening to the uses of benzocaine, teething gel, the effects of baby saliva on glowing fungi and how that fungi compares to glowing jellyfish, how different types of gravel can leave different types of abrasions, and how many bloody quills are on a god-damned hedgehog’s back, amongst many other things, and all because you both have a fucking pointless point to prove to each other.  You know what, fuck you both.  I am going home.  Sherlock,”  and he spins around to face me, but again, I cannot bring myself to look up at him, “You can sort the rest out for once because I want nothing more to do with this god-forsaken case.”  With that, Captain John Watson marches out of the basement and up the stairs, with barely a wince of pain from sore strained muscles; despite feeling guilty as hell, I am more turned on than I have ever been in my life.

 Once he gets over John’s outburst, Lestrade guiltily makes his way over to me and lets me loose.  Rubbing my chafed wrists, I fill him in on what he needs to know and promise to go down to the Yard the following morning.  This time, I honestly mean it, and he must see this in my face.  Right now, all I want to do is go home and make sure John is okay.  This concern must also show through because the DI lets me go with no arguments and a look on his face which is a cross between concern and guilt.

 

~o~

 

As I reach 221B Baker Street, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.  I quickly throw some cash at the cabbie, not caring if it is the right amount and open the message as I exit the cab, hoping it is from John, a mixed feeling of hope and trepidation welling up in my chest.  It all drops away and is replaced with a feeling of sheer irritation when I see the name _Minor Position My Arse_ light up the screen. (The name for my brother changes regularly and the intensity of the insult varies depending on how much he has pissed me off.  John must have changed it this time, after the incident with the Russian spy and the spider monkey from last week.)  My first instinct is to delete it straight away, but habit gets the better of me, and I open the message.

  **Trouble in paradise! MH**

 I open the door to the building as I tap out my reply.

  **Piss off Mycroft SH**

 Making my way up the stairs, I can hear faint noises of John moving around slowly. I make my way into the flat just as John is coming out of the bathroom in his pyjama bottoms and an old NIN tee-shirt, followed by a billowing cloud of steam.  His skin is redder than normal, and, despite towelling off, it is still damp from walking out of the steamy bathroom.  He has obviously just had a very hot shower.  Hotter than he normally would have had.  He must be feeling worse than I thought.

 “You’re in pain”, I say, knowing he is going to deny it.  He does.

 “I'm fine.  You are meant to be finishing the case.”  His tone is indifferent, bored almost.  No.  Tired.

 “It’s sorted”, I tell him.

 “I meant it, Sherlock”, he tells me wearily, making his way over to the kettle.  “I am not doing the paperwork for this one.  I really have had enough of this case.” A small part of me is happy to note that he has pulled two mugs down from the cupboard.

 “I mean it too”, I tell him, keeping that bit of happiness out of my voice.  I need John to know that I am serious about this.  “It really is sorted.”

 John finally looks over his shoulder at me and studies my face for a moment.  He must decide that I am telling the truth this time, which I am, as he says nothing and continues to make the tea.  I let him.  He finds the whole ritual of preparing the hot beverage soothing, and I am not just using that as an excuse to be lazy.  The other week, when I was trying to be more helpful, I accidentally made the mistake of taking over the post-case tea making.  I was politely told to bugger off.  So I watch John, noting the heavy way his limbs move as he makes his way around the kitchen, taking out the simple ingredients, using them, and putting them away again.  His movements are not smooth and effortless.  They are tired and sluggish.

 “How sore are you?” I ask as he turns and hands me my mug.  I didn't actually realise how close I had got to him.  He just looks up at me as if to say ‘ _Drop it_ ’, makes his way into the living room, and slowly sinks down into his arm chair.  I follow suit.  We sit in silence for a good ten minutes before my mouth moves again.

 “I am sorry”, I tell John quietly, looking down into my mug.  I can feel John watching me, but, for the third time that day, I can’t bring myself to look at him.  Damn these feelings.  There is a reason I had them locked away.

 After a minute, John replies.  “I know”, he tells me.  “So am I.” I look up, and I stare at John.  What has he got to be sorry for?  Apparently the confusion shows on my face because John elaborates.  “I shouldn't have yelled like that.  Yes, I was angry, I am angry, but it wasn't all your fault.  And you talking to me really did help, especially since I couldn't see you, even if it was some of the most useless information I have ever heard.”  He gives me a small smile, and then goes back to drinking his tea in silence, looking down at his lap.

 I relax back in my chair and continue to drink my tea.  I watch John as he absentmindedly rolls his left shoulder.  This might just work into my plan.  I feel a small twinge of guilt at taking pleasure in John’s pain, but then I squash it by convincing myself that, if John agrees, then it will benefit him more than it will me.

 “It’s not just your shoulder”, I tell him, and then continue before he can tell me to shut the hell up. “I can tell by the way you move.  You ache all over.”

 “I'm tired”, he tells me, clearly not wanting to discuss this.  “I just want my tea, and then I want to go up to bed and sleep until next week.”  Clearly that is an exaggeration, as that much slumber would only make him feel worse (not to mention basic needs such as sustenance and the need to empty waste from his body would force him out of bed), but I keep my mouth shut.

 We drink our tea in silence for another two minutes.  “I can help, you know.”

 “Thank you, Sherlock, but I think you have done enough”, is John’s emotionless reply.  “I am a big boy.  I know how to fall asleep on my own.”

 Confusion clouds my brain as I take in his comment and run back through our previous comment.  ‘ _Oh’_ I think. _He was referring to the sleep for a week portion of the conversation_.  I rectify the miscommunication immediately.  “I meant with the sore muscles.  I have certain qualifications in massage.”

 John huffs out a small laugh, lays his head on the back of the arm chair, and closes his eyes.  “Of course you do.  Let me guess, you had to infiltrate some posh day spa to find out who was topping up the spray tan solution with carrot juice?”

 I have never stepped foot inside a day spa in my life nor do I know anything about the use of carrots in spray tanning and, judging by the small amused smile on John’s face, I presume that it is not a serious comment.  “No”, I tell him.  “Would you believe me if I told you it was a skill I picked up in rehab, of all places.”  He cracks an eye open and looks at me, then his gaze drops to my hand wrapped around my mug and he shuts his eye again.  He says nothing.

 “Half an hour, and I promise you will feel a hundred times better”, I tell him.  It’s a lie; he will only feel marginally better, but I know how John does love to exaggerate these things.  I can see a muscle twitch in John’s cheek.  He is contemplating my offer.  “Seriously, it couldn't make it any worse.  If anything, it will improve your quality of sleep as your muscles will be less tense.”

 “I am still really, _really_ pissed off with you, Sherlock”, he tells me, a frown pushing his eyebrows alarmingly far down on his face.

 “I understand”, I tell him. “But I promise that I am not doing this to try and earn back your favour” _(lie)_ ; “I only want to help you” _(half a lie)_ ; “and I do feel somewhat responsible.” _(Not a lie at all.)_  Another huff of laughter escapes John’s lips, but at least his face is more relaxed now.  And he is silent.  I wait for any kind of reaction, but there is nothing.  I am starting to think that he may have fallen asleep when he finally opens his eyes and raises his head to look at me.

 “Fine”, he sighs out, as if this is going against his better judgement.  “But know that I am only agreeing because I am sure I can feel my muscles seizing up as I sit here trying not to notice you staring at me.”

 I smile at him, feeling rather satisfied with myself.  John sighs again, probably starting to regret his decision, but it is made now, and I won’t allow any take backs. “Where do you want me?” he asks, slowly pushing himself forward on his chair so he is sitting on the edge of the cushion, looking towards the couch.  I try not to let my mind run away with that statement and list all the prime numbers between one and one hundred, in my head, before I answer him.  “Shirt off, face down, on my bed will do.  I will be in there in a minute.” It is a struggle to keep myself sounding confident, and I am thankful that my voice doesn't come out shaky, like it felt like it was going to do.

 “Your…your bed?” John stutters out, the frown back on his face, as I walk past him on the way to the bathroom.  I turn to face John.  “Problem?” I ask him, head cocked to the side.

 John opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

 “John, you are tired and sore; this way you won’t have to worry about the stairs until your muscles have been worked and are more limber.  My bed is also larger, which will give me more room to move around, unless of course you want me straddling you.”  I wish I hadn't thought that thought.  I now run through all of the square numbers between one and four hundred, only just registering that John is standing up and shuffling towards my room.  A “fine” is muttered as he walks past, but there is no further protest.

 I stand where John left me, thinking this through. I probably should have done that before I offered to give John a massage.  On my bed.  I sigh.  Too late now.  I have already offered, and John is already in my room, probably already topless and on my bed.  These inconvenient feelings are interfering with my ability to think things through properly.  Only when it comes to John, but it is still proving to be a problem.  I can’t blow this, not after the progress that has been made so far.  I know my mind is stronger than my body; I am just going to have to make sure that it stays that way for the next half hour, or however long this massage will take.  I turn and make my way into the bathroom, rummaging around in the cupboard until I find a small brown bottle of oil and a towel, and then make my way into my bedroom.  As predicted, John is topless, face down on my bed.  “Let’s get on with it”, John mutters lazily.  He sounds like he is almost asleep.

 I kick off my shoes and remove my socks, then proceed to remove my jacket and roll the sleeves of my shirt up.  I stand next to the bed and contemplate the best way to go about this.  John has situated himself in the middle of the bed, so kneeling to the side is not an option, not that that would have been the most ideal position anyway.  I am going to have to climb on the bed with him.  I bite the tip of my tongue, the pain stopping my thoughts running away.

 “Any time you are ready”, John prompts sleepily, and I apprehensively climb onto the bed, kneeling next to him.  I grab the oil off of the bedside table and open the lid, pouring a considerable amount into the palm of my hand before returning it to the tabletop.  I rub my hands together, warming the thick liquid; the smell of almonds fills the room, and then I gently place my hands on John’s lower back.  Applying pressure, I push my hands up John’s spine and up over the backs of his shoulders.  I note how smooth his skin is until I reach his left shoulder where my hand moves over the raised, pale flesh of his scar, standing out against the golden hue of his tanned skin.  This scar brought John home, which in turn saw him limping into the lab at Saint Bart’s.  I owe this scar so much, and, at the same time, I loath the pain and suffering it brought the man beneath me.  I make a mental note to study the scar in more detail at a later date ( _and there will be a later date_ ), and I continue.  My hands don’t stop their movement, but continue back down his back before meeting in the middle of his lower back again.  I follow the up and over motion three more times before working a hand over hand massage up the left side of John’s back, kneading the tight muscles under my fingers.  I use my fingers to pinch the flesh, rolling it out, and then flattening my palm along the manipulated flesh, slowly moving from hip to shoulder.  I then repeat the process on the other side.  Every now and then, John lets out a quiet groan when something causes pain or a small moan when something feels more than a bit good.  I bite my lip at every noise, refusing to let my body react to it, but it is not an easy task.  My hands move to the back of John’s neck, and I work on the knotted muscle there; after a few minutes, I feel the tension melt away before I set to work manipulating the muscles in each shoulder.  Applying more oil to my hands, I set to work on John’s arms, starting on the left one.  I work the upper arm, rolling and pinching the muscle under my fingers, my hands making wide circular sweeps over the taut muscle.  I move down to his lower arm and work on his hand, rubbing tight, firm circles into the back of his hand and then his palm with my thumbs, before massaging each individual digit.  Gently laying his hand down by his side, I climb over the back of his legs, avoiding physical contact while doing so, and settle myself on John’s right side, repeating the motions with his right arm.  The whole time I am conscious, but trying not to focus, on the growing problem in my pants.  I try to think of anything to take my mind off it, but the feel of skin and muscle under my palms is not helping _at all_. Thankfully, the noises John is making are coming less and less frequently.  I finish with John’s right arm and wipe my hands on the towel I brought in with me.  I shuffle down the bed, and then, working over the material of John’s cotton pyjama bottoms (I am pretty sure he would object to removing them), I start working on his calf muscle, gripping the leg with my hand and using my thumb to work the muscles.  I work up to the knee and then work my way back down, loosening the muscle.  I repeat the process and work my way up to the knee a third time.  This time, I continue up, working over the back of the thigh.  I half expect John to tense up with my hands working so high up, but he just lies there, accepting the relief my hands are bringing. I work further and further up, trying to keep my breathing steady as my hands near his backside.  Even under the cotton, I can see the well-defined gluteal muscles.  Running around London really does wonders for John’s already impressive physique.  I consider seeing how far I can push this step of my plan, but I quickly decide that making John uncomfortable is not worth the few minutes of absolute pleasure I would get from basically groping my flatmate.  I stop just under the gluteal crease and move back down to John’s ankles to start work on his left leg.  That is when I hear it.  A tiny snore coming from the top of the bed.  I hold John’s leg loosely in my hand.  Do I stop or continue?   _I have done his right leg; I may as well continue_ , I tell myself, _otherwise the muscles in this leg will be tighter_. Using that as my excuse and not the fact that I am relishing in the amount of physical contact I have had with John, I continue my ministrations until his left leg has received the same care as his right leg.  Once the massage has finished, I find myself still kneeling next to John, watching his back as it gently rises and falls with each breath he takes, listening to the heavy breathing of someone deep in sleep, accompanied by the odd snuffled snore.  I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips.  There is no other word for it.  John is adorable when he sleeps.  His lips are parted slightly, and he has a very unexpected, youthful look about him.  He almost looks vulnerable, and, despite the strong muscles just under the surface of his skin, he looks very cuddly.  Before I think about what I am doing, I lean down and place a kiss between John’s shoulder blades, and then gently make my way off of the bed.  I go out to the living room and grab the blanket off of the back of the couch, returning to my bedroom to place it over John’s sleeping form. I then exit the room, turning off the light, and shutting the door on my way out.

 I lean against my bedroom door and gently rub my hands together.  They still smell like almond, but there is also another scent there.  John.  It is all I can smell, and the aroma is leaving me light headed.  Or it could be the lack of blood to my brain, as a majority of it had flooded south.  Fifty three minutes I have been trying to ignore this.  Almost double the amount of time than I originally predicted having my hands on John Watson.  I recall my hands on the back of his thighs, as they make their way down to the front of my thighs, rubbing small circles as I envision John’s firm arse under the blue and green checkered cotton of his pyjama pants.  My hands rub circles into my thighs as I imagine John without the pants, laid out, naked on my bed. My hands move up my thighs to the waist band of my trousers.  I make quick work of the fastenings and, before long, they are dropped to the ground; my pants soon follow.  I lean back against the door again, one hand wrapping around my rock hard cock while the other works its way under my shirt to pinch my nipple.  My back arches, and I let out a hiss at the sensation.  I close my eyes and bite my lower lip to stop the whimper from escaping my mouth as my left hand circles and pulls at the small hard bud on my chest while my right hand starts to pump my cock, hard and fast.  I don’t have the patience to take it slow tonight.  I keep the image of John’s body in my head, my hands on his back, his thighs, his arse, spreading his cheeks to see his tight little hole.  My hand moves, spreading pre-come down my erection.  I imagine running my tongue down his gluteal cleft and swirling it around his entrance, tracing it around and around, John moaning and crying out my name, begging for more.  My mouth is open, and I am panting as I imagine working my tongue in between the firm muscle, into John’s entrance, fucking him with my tongue while I stroke myself faster and faster.  I imagine working a hand under John and stroking him in time with the hand on my own cock and the thrust of my tongue, working its way in and out of his body.  I can feel heat coiling in the pit of my stomach, and I bite down on my bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood.  In my fantasy, John bucks, pushing back into my face, down onto my tongue as he comes, screaming my name.  That is when I feel heat spilling over into my hand.  My hips snap forth, once, twice, three more times as more ejaculate spills into my hand, running down my wrist.  I struggle to get my breathing under control, and my legs feel like they have turned to rubber. I slowly slide down the door.  I release my bottom lip from its toothy grip , lick the drops of blood away, and wipe my hand on my shirt.  I am empty.  After chasing drug dealers around for a week, getting caught and tied up for nearly four hours, fighting with John, making up with John, restraining myself for nearly an hour from pouncing on John, and then wanking after it, I am left exhausted.  I am not sure how, but several minutes later I manage to pick myself up off the ground, pull my pants and trousers up, and make it to the couch where I flop down on my stomach.  After all, it wouldn't do for John to wake up and find me half naked and looking rather debauched at the bedroom door, now would it.  I think of lying here for a bit before getting up to shower, but I don’t get much further than thinking about it; within two minutes of closing my eyes, I am asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock mentions the 3 Eskimos...it is meant to be the 3 Amigos, but we forgive him because we know what he is like.
> 
> I would also like to apologise for my ignorance on the process of cutting cocaine...any information I got was gleaned from google in about ten minutes.
> 
> And just for your reference the Prime Numbers between 1 & 100 are:  
> 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, 73, 79, 83, 89 & 97  
> and the Square Numbers between 1 & 400 are:  
> 1, 4, 9, 16, 25, 36, 49, 64, 81, 100, 121, 144, 169, 196, 225, 256, 289, 324, 361, & 400


	7. Distance May or May Not Make the Heart Grow Fonder, But It Does Bring Out the Devil Worshipper in the Best of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to test the theory "Distance makes the heart grow fonder" and John agrees to try and get his satanic impulses under control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to leyley09 for going through and picking up my mistakes!!!

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Three days.  That is how long John is going to be gone. Almost three full days. Sixty one and a half hours, including travel time.  All for a medical conference in Harrogate to discuss new and improved treatments for some random ailment or another.  The information could probably be typed up into a four page document using an 11 point Calibri font and emailed to interested parties, and then John could further his knowledge in the comfort of his own arm chair, in his own living room where I could observe him and work on pushing our friendship up to a shiny new level.  But no.  For some reason, a bunch of researchers and doctors decided it would be more informative to have a _hands-on_ approach where there could be question time, ridiculously small sandwiches, and semi-decent coffee.  And John agreed to go.  He agreed to leave me here, alone, to fend for myself, with only Mrs Hudson and the skull for company while he went and interacted with people he has never met before nor ever will again.

 I flop down in my arm chair and cross my legs up under me, elbows resting on my knees, hands in the prayer position under my chin.  I stare ahead at John’s chair, not really seeing anything in particular.  It is just a focus point while I think.  I think about the progress I have made up to this point.   Some aspects of this project of mine have gone well so far.  John had forgiven me for getting him kidnapped…again, and he hadn’t been weird about the massage the following morning or about falling asleep in my bed.  Actually, he had been a bit weird about that, but I am pretty certain that it was more a case of he felt guilty for kicking me out of my bed.  I have progressed to walking out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel, and John has progressed to not spitting his tea out over the morning paper.  Our casual touches are becoming more frequent, and I am pretty sure it is not a case of wishful thinking when I say that they are lasting just a second longer than they were two weeks ago.  I am paying more attention to when John gets tired or is angry, and I offer to make tea or hold the door open for him.  If he is not angry at me, I usually get a smile and a ‘ _thanks_ ’ for my effort.  On Wednesday, I bought a bag of lollipops.  So far, eight have disappeared from the bag.  I have only had two, which I made sure to take my time eating in front of John while I read over case notes (the green ones are actually quite nice), so in five days John has had six of the little suckers.  I have yet to witness him consuming any of these confectionaries, and I am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing.  He also has more frequent, extended showers than he used to have.

 The downfall of this project, though, is that I am at serious risk of developing a repetitive strain injury in my right wrist.

 Without even trying, I am noticing the small things that John does more and more, and it seems that everything he does has a sexual connotation.  For example, the other day I watched him slip a finger inside an envelope to neatly tear open the top crease.  Something like that should NOT be arousing, but it took a long time for me to explain that to my libido, and I had to leave the flat in order to do so.  The nightly, and morning, masturbation sessions that I thought I now had control over are much more persistent, and I am going through an alarming amount of lubricant to avoid friction burn.  I can’t look at him at crime scenes because whenever I do I only find that he is watching me, which I should be happy about but it is awfully distracting.  But when he is not around, I find myself getting irritable because he should be here so I can work on seducing him.  His being away is wasting valuable time.  Time that I could be using to work at getting John naked and in my bed.

 So far, he has been gone eight hours and thirty seven minutes.  I have texted him three times and have only received one reply telling me that he arrived at the hotel okay, that he was heading off for the first part of the conference, and that I should not set fire to anything.  He tells me that regularly.  I don’t know why; it is not as if it is a regular habit of mine.  Setting the fire alarm off, yes.  Actually setting things on fire,  that has only happened three times.  Since I met John.  Obviously, he is taking this separation much better than I am.  Well, of course he is.  He has something with which to occupy his time, albeit some overqualified lecturer in a tweed jacket and a mustard green tie blabbing on about the importance of superb bedside manner, or something as equally dull and boring.

 I carry on with that thought.  John won’t be thinking about me at all, while I am left here thinking only about John.  But what if it were the other way around?  What if I was away at a consulting detective conference while he was stuck here, in London, with nothing else to do?  Granted, it is a conference that could be held here, or anywhere that I am considering I am the only one, but that is getting off track.

 I run John’s work schedule through my head.  He has the following week off, so when he does get back to London there will not be any obligations to fill his day.  And if I am also not here, he will have even less to do.  It will be him thinking about how empty the flat is and how there is no one to talk to.  And he will get bored.  Then he will message me and be disappointed when there is no reply, because I will be busy, not in London, without him.  In my absence and with nothing else to occupy him, he will realise just how much of an impact I make in his life.  After all, distance does make the heart grow fonder…apparently.

 I push myself out of my armchair, step over the coffee table, and drop down onto the couch, pulling my laptop (John made sure it was fully charged before he left), onto my lap.  Half an hour later, I have a hotel room booked in Ivybridge, in the South Hams, and a train ticket ready to depart three hours before John is due to return.  I vaguely remember going to Ivybridge when I was quite young.  I think the experience was a pleasant one.  It can’t have been terrible, otherwise I would have completely deleted it.  And I am sure they have some crime there.  Even if it is dull, unimaginative crime.

 With the next step of my plan sorted, I slip on my coat and head down to St. Bart’s to see if Molly has anything that I can use to kill forty-eight hours.

 

~o~

 

The train is twenty minutes late.  Not that it inconveniences me at all.  It is not like I have anything of importance to get to.  But it is almost painful sitting here listening to some struggling uni student desecrate Dancla on a slightly out of tune cello.  It is setting my teeth on edge, and I am about to go and rip her bow out of her hand and snap it in half when my train finally arrives.

 Three hours and twenty six minutes later, I have deduced that the man opposite me was actually a female when he was born and has recently been fired.  The woman who walked past three times has an acute bladder infection and three children under the age of six.  The old lady who boarded before me with a hearing dog actually has perfect hearing and is leaving London to meet her lover, and the two teenagers down the carriage from me are not only first cousins but are also sleeping together.  Christmas dinner will be interesting once they find out she is approximately two months pregnant.  Other than that, the trip is rather dull. Just as I arrive at Ivybridge, I get a text message from John.

  **Just pulling into the station now.**

 So his train was running late as well.  My first instinct is to let him know that I am actually not in town and that I did dispose of the ovaries, appropriately, before I left and that there is a fresh carton of milk in the fridge, but then I remember that I am temporarily ignoring John.

 I disembark the train and hail a taxi to take me to the Bridge Inn.  As I reach the little hotel, I note that the inn is nowhere near the bridge that the town is named after.  In fact, it is not near any bridge at all.  I receive another message from John.

  **Do I need to get milk on the way home?**

 I should say no because, if I don’t answer, he will go to the shop anyway, travel bag and all.  I should text him back, but what I do instead is lock my phone and put it back in my pocket.

 As I am checking in, I make a mental note to let the manager know that _Lynda_ , on front desk, is stealing the guest’s credit card details.  Or I could not tell the manager and let Mycroft find out the hard way that his credit card was violated by a petty criminal.  I’ll think on it.

 The room is standard.  The window looks down over the town.  The walls are pale green, and the bedding is pale yellow.  There are two armchairs by the fire place with a small coffee table between them.  The bathroom is small and also decorated in green hues.  It will do.  I hang my travel bag in the wardrobe and spread my toiletries out over the small bathroom cupboard, and then go flop on the bed.  It is soft.  Too soft.  It’s probably a good thing that I do not plan on doing much sleeping, although what I do plan to do to pass the time is as yet undetermined.  Surely there are other corrupt people, besides _Lynda_ , in the quaint town of Ivybridge.  I would even take on a case of dognapping at this stage.

 Twenty minutes pass, and my phone beeps out its message tone again.

  **Ivybridge?  Really?  It must be one hell of a case to drag you out all that way.  Do you need help?**

 So John is home and has read the little post-it that I left on the _clean_ kitchen table.  I reply to this message, otherwise John may possibly just make his way down here to help with a case that doesn’t really exist.

  **Don’t waste your time.  The case is simple. I owe a favour to someone.  I should be home in a day or two.  Don’t burn down the kitchen.   SH**

 I send the message and lay back and close my eyes torn between hoping that John won’t answer because he will want details of the case and hoping that he will answer because – well - I want him to answer.  He answers.

  **Thanks for the milk.  And the clean table.  Were you really that bored?**

 I smile.  Again, John surprises me.  I decide not to answer and instead stand up and make my way out of my room.  There must be some heinous crime in this little town.  I want to last at least twenty four hours away from London. _At least_.  After all, I need to give John a chance to miss me properly.

 

~o~

 

It has just gone ten when I make it back to my room.  In the time that I was out, I located a missing bicycle and its thief, uncovered two affairs - one of them involving the _not_ hearing impaired little old lady from the train, let the elderly owner of the hardware store know that his nephew was trying to sell the business from under him, and reported _Lynda_ to the manager, as well as _Casey_ the housekeeper and cousin to _Lynda_ , for pilfering linen from the store room.  I have managed to insult no less than six people, have had two drinks thrown at me, been slapped once, and have even managed to eat something, just because John sent me a message telling me not to forget to eat something, amongst several other messages indicating that he is as bored as I am.  I stride to the bathroom, stripping on the way, and run the shower.  My hair smells like rum and coke.  Luckily, none of it got on my coat.  I don’t fancy trying to find somewhere to have that cleaned.  My scarf, on the other hand, was not so lucky.  I consider hand washing it, then realise that I am not sure if it should be washed in hot or cold water.  Mrs Hudson will know.  I will leave it with her when I get home.

 The shower is hot, and I find myself rather sleepy when I get out.  Maybe I will be needing that too soft bed after all.  I towel myself dry while I walk back into my room, and slide between the sheets.  I check my phone to see if John has messaged again.  He hasn’t.  I turn the lamp off and burrow down further under the heavy blanket.  It doesn’t take long for me to go to sleep.

 

~o~

 

Unsurprisingly, I dream of John.  It is a weird dream involving milk and the kitchen table.  Also unsurprisingly, I wake up with an erection.  I groan.  227 miles away, and I still have this reaction.  Absence hasn’t made my heart any fonder, but that is probably a good thing, since it is already overly fond as it is.  I try to ignore the problem, thinking of ways I can amuse myself today.  I am doing well when my phone beeps.  Without any thought, I pick it up and open the message.  It is from John, and my penis starts to swell again.  Apparently, it has an instant Pavlovian response to John's messages.  I groan in frustration as I open the message.

  **Parcel arrived for you.  Left it on your bed.**

 I frown.  Why did he feel the need to let me know this?  It is not like I can do anything about it from here.  And why am I receiving a parcel?  I am not expecting anyth….. _Oh.  That parcel._  I have a sudden urge to message John and find out if he opened it, but I don’t want to draw attention to it.  I ordered it last week, hoping to use it to help relieve some of this god-damn tension that has been building up over the past two months and getting worse since the massage.  God, I hope he didn’t open it.  I’m sure he didn’t.  That is not really John’s style.  Me on the other hand,  I would have torn into it and claimed that it arrived damaged.  But John is not me.  John respects people’s privacy and property.  I am sure that John is unaware that that parcel contains various paraphernalia used in the act of pleasuring oneself…or someone else.  Maybe I should draw John’s attention to it.  Maybe ask him to check that all content match the invoice.  I could list the items over the phone:   _one five and half inch vibrating plug; one six inch prostate stimulator; one eight inch string of anal beads_.  My hand absently strokes over my now very hard cock as I think about John unpacking each item, studying them, running his hands over them.  As a general rule, John is not a shy man.  His performance with Bree, Betina, Blondie all those weeks ago was proof enough of that, but he does seem to stutter and blush a lot whenever I bring up the topic of sex.  Would my parcel make his cheeks redden or would he be turned on?  I groan as my thumb wipes over the head of my cock, gathering up pre-come, and then pumping down again.  Will John let me use them on him when we finally take that final step in our relationship?  Because we _will_ get there.  Will he use them on me?   _I imagine John, spreading my legs and pushing the beads in, slowly.  One.  By. One.  All the way, making me squirm and writhe, drawing it out until I am practically begging. Twisting the string of beads, nudging my prostate_.  My eyes squeeze shut, and a deep groan leaves the back of my throat.  The image of John twisting the beads and slowly pulling them out only to push them back in again pushes me over the edge, and my hand jerks as I come, a long but low guttural cry leaving my mouth as my neck arches back.  My stomach and chest are striped with come, and my hand is warm and sticky.  I wipe the excess off on my stomach, smearing what is already there.  I guess another shower is in order.

 As I am in the shower, I decide against texting John back.  No need to risk making him uncomfortable.  I step out and dry off, dress, and leave my room, sans one rum smelling scarf, ready to take on the inadequate criminals of Ivybridge once again.

 

~o~

 

Today started off looking very promising. A suspicious looking death at the local high school.  Janitor, male, Caucasian, 47 years of age, found dead in the tool shed on the school grounds.  Recently seen in good spirits, 8pm the previous evening.  Has no enemies, is well liked in the area, cause of death blow to the back of the head with a blunt object.  It later turns out that the blunt object was the concrete floor of the tool shed, where he slipped on some oil that was leaking out of one of the tins under the workbench.  It takes a whole fifteen minutes to solve, and that is only because the local police take some convincing to let me have a proper look at the crime scene.  It is just lucky that I have one of Lestrade's badges in my coat pocket.  I leave the scene of the _accident_ feeling rather disappointed.

 Just as I am leaving the school, my phone beeps.

  **Have you had breakfast?**

 I smile.  It is not even nine o’clock, and John is already bored and missing my company.

  **Coffee SH**

 It takes him three minutes to formulate and send the next message.   _We really need to work on his texting skills._

  **Coffee is not breakfast.  If you were home, you could be having scrambled eggs.**

 I feel a little pang of emptiness in my stomach as I read that.  John would be cooking me breakfast.  And I am here solving not-crimes instead.

  **I’m on a case SH** I lie.

 I wait for John’s reply and feel a bit empty…again…when I don’t get one.  The idea of this false case away was to make John miss me, not me miss John more.  I stuff my phone back into my pocket and head off further into the town.  By lunch time, I have located a missing toddler.  It was a case of the toddler unlatching the fence and toddling away.  Nothing sinister.  Located a missing suitcase and actually solved a dognapping case.  It was a Yorkshire terrier going by the name of Bartleby, and was stolen by the man’s ex-wife.  At least it took longer than fifteen minutes to solve.

 In that time, John has also texted me fourteen more times.  The texts range from genuine queries, such as **was the electricity bill paid while I was away** (what electricity bill, John?) and **the ear in the bathroom, floating in the funky green liquid, is that meant to be there or can I throw it out?** (If you touch that ear you will have to deal with a strop of epic proportions!), to the downright ridiculous such as **I think my brown and green shirt has seen its last days** (That is good news indeed), and **why does Mr Tumnus need a scarf if he goes around shirtless?** (Who is Mr Tumnus?  Does he knows how to clean scarfs?).

 The afternoon finds me at a small bee farm on the outskirts of Ivybridge.  I spend two hours there and leave with six jars of honey.  It was an afternoon well spent, and John messages me a further twelve times. I answer the last one ( **I think Molly is finally over you.  I saw her at Tesco’s and she was going on about someone called Toby** ) as I reach the Inn.

  **What do you mean over me? And Toby is a cat, a rather vicious one judging by the scratches she regularly has running up her arms. SH**

 I head up the stairs to my room.  Someone has been in and made the bed.  I sit on one of the armchairs and open my laptop just as John messages back.

  **Never mind then.**

 John goes quiet again after that, and I update my blog on the importance of being able to distinguish the difference between different types of soils and identify them correctly as clay, chalky, silty, sandy, loamy, and peaty and being able to locate each soil type around London. Many cases have been solved by identifying where a suspect has been due to the soil left behind by their shoes.

 I am in the process of hacking into the MET’s database, again (they really need to improve the security -  again!) to look for any interesting unsolved cases when my phone pings.

  **Awake?**

 I look out the window.  It is dark.  When did that happen?  The clock in the bottom corner of my computer screen reads 23:42.  I answer John’s message.

  **Did you honestly expect me not to be?  SH**

 John was bored, but it was a Friday night.  He could be out with anyone.  Lestrade, Stamford, any of his army buddies that were now back in London.  Why, then, would he be messaging me?  It is eight minutes before John answers.  Even for him, that is an exceptionally long time.

  **No.**

 I think about John’s message.  Although he has his moments, John is usually very articulate and has no problems in conveying his message.  He seems to be floundering tonight.  Should I help him, or let him struggle?  I sigh and then do something that I very rarely do.  I hit the call button on John’s name.  It rings once before he answers it.  “Sherlock?” he asks as if he is not quite sure.  I really do like the way he says my name.  There is nothing special about the way he pronounces it, just that it is said in his voice.

 “Who else would be calling from my phone, John?” I answer trying to sound bored.  It’s really not much of a challenge.

 “No, sorry, you just don’t usually ring.  I thought something might be wrong.”  Is it bad that I feel a little bit of glee over the worry in his voice?

 “I can assure you, John, all is well here in Ivybridge.  I was actually ringing to see if you were okay”, I tell him, stamping down that small feeling of glee, lest it make itself known in my voice.  “It’s not like you to send one worded texts that are headed in no general direction.”

 I hear a small, muffled sigh, from the other end of the phone.  “Sorry”, he finally mutters out.  He sounds tired.  “I guess I was just bored.  Sorry, I should let you get back to the case.”

 My mind goes into quick-think mode, well, more quick-think than normal.  I need to keep John talking.  I didn’t realise how much I missed his voice until he said my name not even a few minutes ago.  “No, it’s okay.  The case is finished.” I cringe.  Now he will want details.  I really do need to get this talking without thinking thing under control.

 “Oh.  So, you will be home soon?” John suddenly doesn’t sound so tired.  In fact, he sounds…hopeful?

 “Yes, tomorrow morning”, I tell him as I quickly book my train ticket back.  “My train should get in around eleven.”

 “So, an interesting case was it?” John asks, sounding even less tired now.

 “Not really”, I reply, reverting back to my bored tone.  “Was helping out a friend of my parents.  Family heirlooms going missing.  The butler did it.” The lie just rolls off my tongue.

 “And it took you, Sherlock Holmes, two days to solve it?” John asks, sounding almost bemused.

 Shit.  Again with the not thinking before talking.  “Well, you know how it is”, I spit out, stalling for time.  “Wealthy families.  Secrets.  The lies they tell, John; it is horribly distracting.”

 “Hmm” comes the reply.  I can tell, just from that small non-committed vocalisation that he is trying not to smile.  He knows that that was bull shit.  I need to change the subject.  “Why are you home if you are so bored?  Surely Graham or Mike are available for a pint or a game or a…whatever it is you do when you socialise.”

 I hear a small huff of laughter.  “It’s _Greg_ , and we go for a pint while we watch the match, and yes, I am sure either or both are available, but, I dunno, I just didn’t feel like going out tonight.”  By the end of the sentence, the laughter has left his voice, and he sounds rather melancholy.

 “What about the telly.  Surely there is something on there you can watch.  And it is bound to be more fun without me ruining it for you.”

 Another non-committal hmm from the phone.  I have never know John to be so lost.  Has four days without me really bothered him so much?  I swear that the upturn of my lips at that thought is involuntary.

 “You are probably tired.  I should go.  I really shouldn’t have bothered you.” I hear a noise and know instantly that he just rubbed his hand over his face.  He is unsure of something, and it occurs to me that I may have sounded like I was trying to get him to end the conversation, which is preposterous.  If I didn’t want to be talking, I would have hung up already, and not necessarily with an excuse.  Surely John knows that about me by now.

 “No, it is fine.  It’s just we don’t usually…talk…like this.  On the phone.”  I did have plans for that sentence when it started, but then it ended like that.

 “I don’t think we have ever spent this much time apart”, John answers, and he is right.  Three days and two nights is the longest, which is what it should have been this time around, but then I had talked myself into taking my own trip, and it seems to be working.

 “No, I don’t suppose we have”, I answer.  There is a brief silence.  I need to fill it before John decides to hang up again.  “So, how was your day?”  Thankfully, over the past two months I have asked him that question several times, so it shouldn’t sound too suspicious coming from me now.

 John exhales slowly, and then inhales before saying, “Really not that interesting.  I got called into the clinic to do a half shift.” Damn that incompetent health centre.  John was meant to be bored while I was away, not otherwise occupied.  “Then I helped Mrs Hudson fix a shelf in her bathroom.  Her bathroom is an alarming shade of bright pink.  I never would have guessed.  Then we watched _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_.”

 “I would ask what a lion and a witch have to do with a wardrobe, but I am sure I won’t care, and if you think Mrs Hudson’s bathroom is an alarming shade of pink, you should see the guest bedroom”, I warn him.  It is horrid.  Whoever told her that canary yellow and fairy floss pink was a good combination should be lobotomised.

 “I will take your word for it”, John tells me, and from his voice, I can tell that he is smiling again.  “I was then going to go for a walk, but, not even half way down the block, your brother kidnapped me again.”

 I groan.  Bloody Mycroft.  Why the hell can’t he just bugger off and leave. Us. Alone?

 I am taken back by John’s laugh.  “I’m guessing he is funding your trip away”, John says.  “He wanted to know if the Bridge Inn meant anything to me.  I told him that I thought that was where Mrs Hudson and Mrs Turner went every Thursday to play bridge, and I started rattling off facts about the game.  I am pretty sure I made up all of those facts, as I have never played bridge in my life, but Mycroft doesn’t look like a bridge player either, so I figured he wouldn’t know anyways.  When I got home, I googled Bridge Inn and surprise, surprise, it is in Ivybridge.”

 I smile at the thought of Mycroft having an afternoon wasted by a false lesson in bridge, by John of all people.  “He probably went home and looked it up just so he can correct you next time he sees you”, I tell him as I make a mental note to change Mycroft’s name to _Bridge Guru_ in my phone.  “Actually, he won’t even wait that long.  Expect an email on the rules of bridge within the next twenty four hours.”  At that, John laughs outright.

 “That’s okay.  Molly sent me a video of a cat eating chocolate cake the other day.  I will forward it on to him.”  At that, I laugh out loud, but then feel the need to add, “If you ever send me any cat videos I will disown you.”

 “Mmm, no, I think you are more of a dog person”, John replies thoughtfully.

 He is right.  I love dogs.  But that is not the point.  “No animal videos of any species, unless it is directly related to a case.  Even then, think twice about it.  I’m serious, John.”

 “I promise to think about it, but that is all I can do.  Sometimes, the silliness takes over, and I lose control.”

 “I mean it, John.  I will change the locks on the doors while you are out.”  It is a warning, but there is no heat behind it.  I am having trouble being away from him for four days.  A lifetime would be impossible.

 “You taught me how to pick locks”, John reminds me.

 “I will get the most complex lock on the market”, I retort.

 “I will get Angelo to open it.” It seems John is in a rather playful mood.  I can work with this.

 “I will tell him not to talk to you.”  After all, I was the one who got him off of the murder charge.  Not John.

 “But he will.  He loves me.  Sets out a candle every time I go see him.”  Everyone loves John.  He is that kind of person.

 “I don’t think that candle is for his benefit, John”, I inform him. Surely he has worked that out.  Even though Angelo doesn’t announce that it is ‘ _a candle for your date_ ’ anymore, the message is still clear.

 “Anyway, even if he won’t help me, Mrs Hudson will let me in.” It seems John has an answer for everything.

 “No she won’t”, I practically sing.  We all know that I am Mrs Hudson’s favourite.    

 “Yeah, she will.  She likes me.  We watch crap telly together.  She thinks I’m a sweet boy.” But it appears that John is an extremely close second, possibly nearing an equal.

 “I will tell her that I kicked you out because you worship the devil and sacrifice homeless kittens to the blender”, I reply flippantly.  Everyone knows I have no qualms about lying, even when I know the lie won’t be believed.

 “We don’t have a blender.”  John almost sounds triumphant.

 “No, not any more.  I had to get rid of it to try and stop this evil habit of yours.  What will Molly say when she finds out how many innocent kittens have died at your hands?”  The mock shock in the tone of my voice is almost comical, and I hear John choke back a snort.

 “If I promise not to send you any animal videos, will you buy me another blender.  I am getting kitten mixing withdrawals”, John asks, and it almost sounds like he is pleading with me.

 “Against my better judgement, John, yes I will get another blender.  Just for when it gets too hard to fight the impulses, but you have to try harder to give up your wicked ways”, I answer with a troubled sigh and a fight to keep the grin off my face.

 “I promise.  But it’s not like they make patches for these sorts of things.”  John practically scoffs at the injustice of it.

 “I expect that written down and signed by the time I get home tomorrow”, I instruct.

 “In blood.”  It sounds more of a promise than a question, but I reply anyway.

 “Is there any other way?” I ask, feigning disbelief.

 “Not for someone who worships the devil”, John replies seriously.

 “You need to turn away from the dark, my John.  Let the good lord in.” At that, John bursts out laughing.  Apparently, I won the game.  (Apparently, we were playing a game.)

 “Oh my god”, John gets out between laughs.  “Where in the hell did that come from?”

 I realise that I myself am chuckling quietly.  I shrug before it occurs to me that John can’t see me.  “I was on a case once, and someone thought that I needed guidance from the ever almighty.  I do believe he said something to me along those lines.  It didn’t occur to him that, after killing three innocent people, he probably wasn’t the best advocate for turning away from the dark.”

 John chuckles a bit more and then calms down.  “You know”, he says finally, “that was probably the most ridiculous conversation I have ever had.”

 “Hmm”, I agree, “it was rather unusual.”

 John lets out another little huff of laughter.  “It was fun.  We should do it more often.”  I don’t answer.  It was fun, even if quite silly.  I do like making John laugh.

 After a few moments of silence, John speaks again.  “I really should go now.  It is late, and I promised I would do another half shift at the clinic tomorrow morning.”  I just stop the growl of frustration that threatens to rumble up the back of my throat.  “I should be home around the same time as you”, John confirms with a yawn.

 “Goodnight, John”, I say, because if I say anything else, he might hear the disappointment in my voice at having to end the conversation.

 “Goodnight, Sherlock”, he says back and hangs up.

 I change into my pyjamas, change Mycroft’s name in my phone, and go to bed.  That night I dream of John, and kittens, and blenders.  Thankfully, I don’t wake up with an erection.  How messed up would that make me!  What I do wake up to is an email titled ‘ _I’ll buy my own blender_ ’ with a Youtube video attached, titled ‘ _Funniest Otter Videos_.’  I refuse to open it, but it makes me smile all the same.

 When I arrive back home at Baker Street, John still isn’t home from the clinic.  That saps the good mood I felt all the way back on the train at the thought of seeing John again.  But what I do find makes me smile again.  It is a handwritten note reading: “ _I, John H. Watson, promise to try harder to not sacrifice any more homeless kittens to the blender in the name of our dark lord, Satan_.”  It was signed in what looked like, smelt like, and, yes, tasted like strawberry jam.  Not blood, but close enough.  With the amount of the stuff that John eats, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was part of his DNA somehow.  I stick the note on the fridge with a magnet, and then take my bag to my room and hang it on the wardrobe door, noting the inconspicuous box sitting in the middle of my bed.  I stride over and pick it up off of my duvet and study it.  I smile.  A corner of the wrapping has been picked at.  It appears that John was maybe just a little bit curious after all, but John, being John, would have told himself ‘a bit not good’ and stopped, which would explain why the parcel was put in my room and not left on the mantel with all of the other post.  I am about to open it when I hear the downstairs door open and a familiar tread on the steps.  I drop the parcel back on the bed.  It can wait, for now; John is home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone answer, why does Mr Tumnus, in the Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe, need a scarf if a shirt is not necessary?
> 
> And according to the crime stats, available on google, one of the crimes recorded in Ivybridge in 2014 was the theft of a bicycle.
> 
> I would also like to say that I, in no way, condone the act of putting kittens, or any other cute, fluffy animals in your blender. It will seriously fuck-up your blades....jokes, it's just horribly cruel...and will seriously fuck-up your blades.


	8. Getting To Know You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will a dead porn star, an organ harvester and a ridiculous fear of needles finally bring the boys together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanky-thanky-thanks to leyley09 for doing a thorough run through and making the wrongs right!!! :)

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Even I wince at the body below me.  The victim had clearly been alive, and conscious, when he had been…mutilated.  “John!” I call out, before I realise that he is not here.  There was an emergency at the clinic, and he was unable to leave.  Lestrade comes up next to me.

 “Not a pretty sight.  Can’t imagine what the poor bastard would have had to have done to deserve that”, he comments solemnly.

 I squat down next to the corpse to get a closer look at the finer details.  “Lestrade, you work in homicide; you are quite aware of the evils that men are able to carry out.  Some of them deserve more than this.”  My voice is strong and steady as I say this, but I still need to fight back another wince as I look at his genitals, which are currently located between his own lips.

 “Yeah, but look at him.  Barely twenty five at the most.  Looks like he would have been a really nice looking bloke, almost angelic.”  

 I give the DI a scathing look. “Angelic, really?” I continue my search of the body.  I can’t count on Anderson's input (not that I usually can anyway). He went a funny shade of grey when he saw the body.  “He is actually closer to thirty; he has just taken very good care of himself.  As for the _angelic_ look,  he stays inside most of the time, leaving him pale, the rosy cheeks are supplied by makeup, and what would be golden curls, were they not matted down with blood, come from a salon.  He is naturally ginger and straight haired.”  I pick up his hands and study under his perfectly manicured fingernails.  No traces of blood or skin.  The coat of clear nail polish wasn’t even chipped.  So he didn’t fight back with his hands.  The bindings on his wrists and ankles had left deep gouges in the skin, so he had tried very hard to break free.  I suppose I would have also if someone had taken a jagged blade to my testicles, which were still raggedly attached to the penis shoved halfway down the victim’s throat.  Apart from his eyebrows, there was not a strand of body hair on him anywhere.  He was close to six foot in height and was thin with obvious muscle tone, well, everywhere.  “Apparent gym buff.  Do we know what he does for a living?”

 “What, you can’t tell from the shampoo he wears or the cut of diamond in his earring?” Lestrade muses.

 I roll my eyes.  “I can’t just pull facts out of the air, Lestrade.  There does need to be some form of connection between the evidence and the fact.  It is not a magic trick.  There is logic behind what I do. Anyone can do it; you are all just too lazy to apply the necessary attention to detail.”

 “Yeah, that and we don’t all have every fact under the sun stored away in our heads”, the older man muttered.

 “Not every fact - just the important ones”, I tell him, as I continue my search for evidence.

 “No, that’s right.  You don’t actually know anything about the sun, do you?” I can hear the grin on his face.  I quickly pull out my phone and text John.

  **Has the crisis been resolved yet?  SH**

 I put the phone back in my pocket and continue the search with my loupe.  ‘Is that…glitter?” I ask, standing up, pointing to the guy’s chest.  Lestrade squats down where I was to get a better look.  “Can we get more light over here?” he calls out.  Someone comes over with a portable light and holds it above the body.  Sure enough, the skin sparkles silver.

 “Shimmer dust, comes a voice behind us.  I turn to see Sally Donovan looking down at the body.  “What a waste.  He was gorgeous.”

 “I’m sorry.  Shimmer dust?” I ask.  “What is shimmer dust?”

 Sally looks at me as if I have grown two heads.  “You, Sherlock Holmes, don’t know what shimmer dust is?” she balks.

 I inhale, trying very hard to _'hold my shit together_ ' as John would say. “Due to the fact that I have never had to use _shimmer dust_ ”, I spit out the last two words, “there would be no need for me to have any knowledge of it, so if you would please try to be helpful - I know it is a new concept - and explain, I would be grateful.  If not, leave.”

 I watch Donovan contemplating whether she will hand over the information or not.  In the end, Lestrade intervenes.  “Sally, just tell him already.  I’d like to get this solved this year, yeah?”

 With a roll of her eyes and a put on sigh, she opens her mouth and explains.  “Shimmer dust is a fine powder, usually with a metallic look.  Girls, and apparently guys”, her hand waves over the dead body below us, “use it to accent certain parts of their body to make them look, well, shimmery.”

 I look back to the body at my feet.  “Can we flip him?” I ask.  It is actually an order, but apparently John’s insistence that I try to be more people-friendly is starting to rub off on me.  Two rookies are summoned, and they roll the body over.  The first thing I notice is a tattoo that takes up most of his back.  It is a dragon, filled in with blacks, greys and whites.  It’s mouth is open, baring its teeth, and its long tongue falls down the length of his back, stopping just above his gluteal cleft. Two small dimples sit either side of the forked end.  The first officer holds up the light again, and the victim’s back breaks out in a shimmer.  Why does the tattoo look silver? Can you get silver ink?  I run my hand over the dragon’s splayed claw, just above his left arse cheek.  It smears.  Someone has gone over the tattoo, in fine detail, with a sheer silver paint.

 “Looks like we have a vampire on our hands”, someone snickers behind me.  I whip my gaze up to one of the rookies that rolled the body, and the smirk drops off of her face as she shrinks back into herself.   New on the force, trying to prove a point, maybe to her father.  Puts on a false bravado, but can’t carry it through very easily.  Has a black poodle. Plays tennis.  “Sorry”, she mumbles.  “Just pale skin -  sparkles.  Twilight.”  I glare even harder at her.  What in the hell is she on about?

 “Dawson, thanks,” Lestrade says, trying to sound soothing.  It comes out as tired.  “Maybe go see if Giles needs help.”  She doesn’t need to be told twice, and quickly scuttles away.

 I look back to the body.  “If it wasn’t evident enough with the perfect grooming of the body, it is clearly evident now with the make-up and paint to his tattoo that this man works in an industry that uses his body.  I think it is safe to say sex worker of some sort.  Not a street boy; he is too well looked after.  Try some of the more upmarket escort agencies.  Also”, I stand up and walk into the bedroom, pointing at the computer, “look online; he has a camera set up.” I point to the cupboard at the opposite end of the bed, “it will be in there.  He does a lot of work online.  What was his name again?”

“Albert Jefferson”, Lestrade offers.

 “He will have a false name.  No one wants to have sex with a man named _Albert_ ”, I tell him.  “I will let you know when I have his nom de guerre”, I call as I stalk away from the crime scene, checking my phone.  Apparently, John’s crisis is still at hand.

 

~o~

 

I hear John falter outside the door, hesitating to enter.  It takes me a few seconds to realise that he is probably trying to determine what the noises inside the flat mean.  I hit the mute button on John’s laptop.  Mine was in the living room.  He enters the flat and walks into the kitchen, where I am sitting at the table, after hanging up his jacket and pauses.

 “Sherlock?” he asks.

 It doesn’t need to be asked.  I know what the question is, but I am going to let him ask it anyway.

 “Why are you watching porn on my”, he walks up closer to the table, “yep, on my computer.”

 I watch the two men in front of me, taking note of the short dark one.  “Because mine was too far away”, I mumble, trying to not notice John’s slightly uneven breathing.

 “Okay”, he says slowly.  “Let me ask it this way.  Why are you watching porn at all?”  I pause the image and turn to face John.  His face has taken on a slight pink colour, and his tongue slips out to moisten his lips.  Again.

 “Why not?” I snap.  I am really over people thinking that I am not a sexual being, just because I don’t lay down for every person who smiles at me.  I thought John was above all of that.  I can’t help the sarcastic follow on.  “Judging by the viruses you had on your computer, which I fixed by the way, you watch enough of it yourself.” The past nearly three months are starting to get to me.  I honestly thought John would have cracked by now.  It is exceedingly frustrating.

 John has the decency to look ashamed, and his eyes drop to his shoes.  “Sorry…I didn’t mean, I just…”  Suddenly, I feel bad for making John feel bad.  “What I meant”, John continues, “was why here, in the kitchen, in the middle of the day.  And thank you for the viruses”, he mumbles.

 “You’re welcome”, I mutter, turning back to the screen in front of me. I hit play again and observe the two naked men rutting up against each other. “It is for a case”, I tell him.  A few seconds later, John is standing next to me.  “That one”, I point to the blonde haired, rosy cheeked actor with dragon tattooed on his back, “was found murdered this morning.  Someone had removed his tools of trade, depositing them into his mouth.  He died from shock presumably from the pain and loss of blood.”

 “When you say tools of trade….” John knows what I mean, but he doesn’t want to believe it.

 “Yes John, someone removed his penis and scrotum, I say removed…butchered would be a better term, and stuffed them into his mouth”, I confirm.

 “And you say he died from shock?”

 “Hmm”, I confirm, “I daresay it wasn’t an overly relaxing experience.”

 “Please tell me he wasn’t awake throughout the removal of his…bits.”  If I didn’t know any better, I would say John sounded almost squeamish.

 “Judging by the look on his face when he was found, I would say yes.  He was in fact awake when he was castrated.  The penis replaced the balled-up underwear that had originally been used as a gag. ”  There is a gulp from behind me.

 “And you think that guy did it?” he asked, now pointing to the short dark haired one.

 “It’s not looking likely”, I tell him.  We sit in silence watching the two men go at it before John speaks again.

 “What in the fuck is he doing?”  I can almost hear his eyes doubling in size.  I keep the smirk off my face.

 “It’s called docking, John.”

 “It has a name?” John blurts.  “How is his foreskin that big?  That’s not natural.”

 “I can assure you, John, it is natural, and the practice is not that uncommon.”

 John stares at the screen for another minute.  I observe John with a side glance. Flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted, yep, there is the appearance of the tip of his tongue.  “He is basically fucking his foreskin”, he comments, still not able to fully grasp what he is seeing.

 I close that window and open another one.  This one has two men going down on each other.  One participant is a platinum blonde Asian.  The other is our very own Albert Jefferson.  “That”, I tell John, pointing at the silver dragon flexing over tight muscle, “is Albert Jefferson, AKA, Blade Rider”, I see John wince out of the corner of my eye.  “I am sure when he chose that ridiculous name he was unaware of what would be his eventual, messy demise.  He started in the from-home internet porn industry at the age of nineteen, to help put him through Uni.  He is, or was, a qualified psychologist.  Apparently, that line of work wasn’t fulfilling enough, and he continued with his on-line sex career once his studies were finished. He was picked up by ‘ _Blown_ ’ Film Industries, three years ago.  He quickly become one of the more popular, and highest paid, actors in the company.  According to everyone we have spoken to, he is a _really lovely guy_ and _doesn’t have any enemies_.  Obviously, the penis down his throat tells us otherwise.  My guess is he stepped on some toes in his quick rise to the top.  I am hoping I will find the suspect here.”  I close down the current video and open another one.  This one has two men penetrating Mr. Rider from either end.

 “Hang on”, John says, as if something just dawned on him.  “These are not your average run of the mill websites.  You have, what, eight open.  This must be costing you a fortune.”

 I dig in my pocket and pull out my wallet, extracting a gold card from the front slots.  “Courtesy of _My_ bank”, I tell him handing the metal card over.

 John lets out a bark of laughter and then groans.  “Bloody hell, if he kidnapped me because you used his card to book a hotel room, what is he going to do to me when he gets the bill for this?” and he hands Mycroft’s credit card back to me.  “Why didn’t he cancel it after last time?”

 “He did”, I tell him.  “This is another one.  And I am sure he uses his cards for much seedier things.”

 “I don’t want to know”, John tells me quickly, and then goes back to watching the screen.  “What exactly are you looking for?” He asks as I close one window and then open another.  This one has our friend Blade tied down by another man that looks a lot like the victim.

 “Him”, I say, pointing to the other blonde.  He is taking to Albert with a whip, which I am sure is all meant to be a fantastic show for those who like to watch one person whipped and beaten, but this is no act.  “Look at his face.  He is angry, and not just porn star, dom angry.  That is raw, real anger.  He hates Blade Rider.”  I read the write up to find that our whip hand is called Flynn Hudson.  Twenty minutes later, I have three more videos that involve Flynn either whipping or degrading Blade in some way or another, and some basic research revealed that Flynn, real name Damian Green, has been with Blown Industries for just over five years and was the golden boy until Blade came along.  Ever since then, it has been a battle of the two to keep top place, obviously a place in which Blade seemed to sit more often than Flynn in the past seven months.

 I fire off a text to Lestrade and close down the remaining windows on John’s laptop.  That is when I realise that the flat is quiet.  I stand up to go look for John when the bathroom door opens and John walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered and changed into clean clothes.

 “Tea?” he asks as he walks past me, not looking at me.

 “Thanks”, I reply slowly, watching him pass me. Something is not right, and I think I know what it is.  I make my way into the bathroom under the pretence of needing the toilet.  With the door shut, my suspicions are confirmed.  There is no steam in the bathroom.  A touch of the pipes reveal that they are icy cold.  John has just taken a cold shower.  I chuckle to myself as I flush the toilet and wash my hands, dropping the amused look as I exit the bathroom.  John is sitting in his arm chair, cup of tea in his hand.  A cup is waiting on the table next to my chair.  I walk over and sit in my chair, opposite John, and pick up my mug, wrapping both of my hands around the outside.  I study John as he peruses through the newspaper.

 “You seemed shocked by some of those things”, I finally say.

 John looks over the top of the paper, one eyebrow cocked.  “Hmm?” he responds.

 “The videos.  You seemed genuinely shocked at some of the activities.”

 He just shrugs and goes back to reading the paper.  “Guess I have just never looked into it before”, he finally replies.

 “You were in the army for ten years.  Surely you saw some things, heard things”, I answer, really curious now as to how far John’s experience with men had gone.

 John sighs and places the newspaper on his lap and looks at me.  “Yes, I was I the army for ten years.  That doesn’t mean I was privy to every homosexual act that has ever been created.  And yes, on the odd occasion things were heard, but it was usually a lot of moaning and grunting in the dark.  We learned to roll over and ignore it, just like when your dorm mate at Uni brought a girl back.”

 “I never had a dorm mate”, I tell him.  “At least, not one that lasted for more than three nights.”

 John chuckles.  “Of course you didn’t.  I’m sure you tried everything you could to get rid of them.”

 “It didn’t take much trying”, I tell him absently.

 We slip back into silence, John reading the paper, me nursing a cup of tea.  “So you never thought to experiment with guys then?” I finally ask.

 Again, John lowers the paper and looks at me.  “Honestly, yes, every now and then I thought about it, but the urge was never strong enough to do anything about it.  What about you?”

 “You know me, John, I am always open to experimentation.”  After a few moments of silence, John picks up the paper again and starts reading.  I get the sense that something is not quite right.  Is John upset that I am not the blushing virgin so many people think I am?  Surely not.  With all of the hints I have been dropping these past few months, it would be obvious to a deaf and blind nun that that wasn’t the case.  So it must be something else about my answer.  Or lack of answer, maybe.  After all, I didn’t really elaborate, and John shared with me something that I doubt he has told very many people at all.

 “I certainly wasn’t shy in my younger years, and I knew damn well that I was attractive, so yes, I used both of those points, plus the fact that I never had a dorm mate to worry about, to my full advantage.  I would like to say I wasn’t picky about who I brought home, but you were much more likely to be a successful candidate if you were not female.”

 “But you did sleep with girls?” John asks, not putting down the paper.

 “Three.  Twice I was high, and once I was with another guy.” I don’t look at John, but I hear the paper crinkle as his fist tightens its grip, just slightly.  When I do look back to John, I notice that the newspaper is being held a bit lower and he is wiggling in his seat a bit, trying to get comfortable again.  Without seeing his face, I already know it is flushed again.  This could be fun.  Do I make my doctor squirm, just a bit longer?  How much more before he needs another cold shower?  No.  I think he has suffered enough today.  A change of subject is in order.  “I did have a girlfriend once.  I was twelve and she was thirteen.  We met at one of my mother’s garden parties.  She asked me out.  I said yes because it was the polite thing to do.  Not even half an hour later, it was over because she tried to kiss me, and I thought it was the most horrid thing ever.  I don’t remember a thing about her, except for the way she yelled at me for pushing her into the gardenias.”

 I heard John chuckle behind the newspaper.  “What? I suppose your first kiss was so much more successful”, I huff, but not really offended.

 “No”, John says, finally lowering the paper and looking at me again.  “It was actually a lot more pitiful.  I was fourteen and was at a school dance.  I really didn’t want to be there, but my mates dared me to go and kiss Tania Olson.  She was the hottest girl in our year.  It took all night to build up the courage to just walk up to her, and just as my lips touched hers, our principal, Mrs Grayson, yanks me by the back of my collar and yells at me about sexually harassing the other students.  The whole time, Tania and her friends were standing there, along with my mates, laughing at me.  Turns out Mrs Grayson was Tania’s Aunty.  I had never been so humiliated in my life.  Put me off trying to kiss anyone for ages.”

 “So the humiliation got worse then?” I ask.  John gives me a funny look.  “You said had.   _You had never been so humiliated_ , which implies that since then you have been even more humiliated.”

 “Well, yeah.  I got introduced to Alcohol, and then Uni happened.  The two together just screams humiliation.  Waking up naked in my girlfriend’s parent’s bed by her mother screaming.  Attempting to breakdance, while drunk, only to wind up in A&E with a broken ulna and a black eye. I attempted a mullet at one stage; those were dark days I can tell you.  All I can say is that I am glad youtube didn’t exist back in the nineties.”  I smile at that.  “What about you?  I suppose you were all grace and style.”

 I let out a small sigh as I think back on my Uni days.  “John, I spent the last half of it high on whatever took my fancy”, I ignore the flinch he gives at the reference to my drug use. “If you think my filter is bad now, you should have seen it back then.”  I do, however, take note of the small grin that takes hold of his mouth at that.  “But I do have one question for you, though.”

 “Go ahead”, John says, an amused glint in his eyes.

 “What in god’s name is a mullet?” and John bursts out laughing.

 

~o~

 

That afternoon is spent reminiscing about our childhood and younger years.  Sex was completely avoided.  It turns out that John played cricket and rugby, used to ride his bike everywhere, and had a pet hamster named Marvin, after the robot in Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.  His first girlfriend, not Tania, was a girl named Maria, and the relationship lasted seven months.  It is the second longest relationship that he has ever had, the first being with a girl named Jamie.  It lasted sixteen months.  She left him when he decided to join the army.  His favourite food used to be pecan pie until, when he finally moved out on his own, he over indulged.  Now, the smell of pecans makes him feel queasy.  Not only did he break his arm in the terrible break dancing incident of ’93, but he has also broken every toe, separately, in his right foot, the middle one being broken twice.  He has had his tonsils and appendix removed, and made the mistake of getting his tongue pierced, at a girlfriend’s request, when he was twenty one.  It was in there for two days when he accidentally swallowed it.  When his girlfriend suggest that he wait until it was passed, wash it, and put it back in, he broke up with her and refused to get anything pierced ever again.  He likes reading H G Wells and really likes grunge music.  I have no idea what grunge music is, but he assures me that I will hate it.  I agree with him.

 I inform him that the only sport I ever partook in was swimming, but it only lasted a season because I let on that the coach was having an affair with one of the older members in our group.  Her husband left her, and she practically had a mental breakdown every time she saw me.  It was decided that it was best if I left the team.  I picked up the violin for the first time when I was four.  For two years, I had a teacher.  He left when I corrected his fingering.  I then had another instructor.  She lasted six months before I told her that our neighbour’s cat had fleas once which caused me to scratch my legs a lot like she was scratching her groin.   The diagnosis would have been correct if I knew about crabs at the age of six.  After that, I had two more teachers that lasted a total of nine months before I scared them off for one reason or another.  Since then, I have been self-taught.  I liked reading Robinson Crusoe and Jules Verne as a child, and we had a dog, an Irish setter, named Redbeard.  He was put down when I was eleven for being too old.  I feared for my Grand-mere’s life after that.  She died when I was nineteen.  There was no relation to that and me starting my drug use later that year.  I informed him about how, when I was twenty one, I had essentially gotten my bottom lip pierced after making out with a guy who had numerous piercings and one particularly sharp pointed one imbedded itself in the skin just under the right hand side of my bottom lip.  It resulted in a small scar and a hatred for all facial piercings.  I told him how Mrs Hudson’s sister found me and told me about her sister in Florida.  I took up the case, just for something to do.  Mycroft was furious when he found out I had left the country, as I had just come fresh out of rehab for the first time.  He didn’t have as many resources at the time, so it took him three days to realise where I had gone.  I inform John that I have had the same hairstyle my entire life.  No embarrassing styles that may or may not have been photographed for blackmail in later life, and I don’t like pecan pie either.

 We talk until it is getting dark and John decides it is time for food.  We have Chinese and watch some crime show about a bumbling psychologist who helps out the police on homicide cases.  Out of all the shows John has made me watch, this one is quite bearable, even if it is flawed.  John goes to bed after the show has finished.  I stay up and catalogue everything I learned about John today, and make a mental reminder to text Harry to get a photo of John avec mullet.

 

~o~

 

Waiting is tedious.  I hate waiting.  But unfortunately, some things are out of my control.  Like waiting for the blood results on our latest victim.  The past three days have seen two deaths involving organ removal.  The first had their lungs removed.  The latest had been found without liver or kidneys.  Both victims were unidentified and homeless, new to London.  No one knew who they were or from where they had come.  Both were female, and both had turned to prostitution to earn money.  I have a theory that the organs are for one customer and are not going to the general black market; therefore I needed to know if the two victims have the same blood type, which hadn’t taken long to confirm as A-negative for both of them, but I also want to know if there are any rare conditions that they may be suffering that our very own Jack the Ripper may be interested in.

 I look through my microscope at the sample before me.  A bit anaemic, but nothing unusual. Quite dull actually.  I can hear John repositioning himself on the stool across from me.  I am sure his blood wouldn’t be dull.  I continue to look through the lens as a thought occurs to me.  “John”, I call quietly without looking up from my microscope.

 “Found something?” he asks, almost eagerly.  He is just as bored as I am.

 “What blood type are you?” I ask, ignoring his question.  I actually know what blood type he is.  I found his ID tags when I was looking for his gun a few months back.

 “A-Neg, why?” he asks.

 “I need a sample”, I tell him flatly, adjusting the zoom on the microscope.

 “Yeah, no”, is his answer.  I finally look up at him with an impatient scowl on my face.

 “John.  You are a _healthy_ A-negative.  The victims are _unhealthy_ A-negatives.  I need to make some comparisons.  It is just a bit of blood.  You can draw it yourself if you’d rather.” I get up and make my way to the supply cupboard to retrieve the items I will need to get just a small vial of John’s blood, glad that he is not aware of the fact that I, too, am A-negative.

 I hear John sigh.  That is as good as an agreement.  When I get back to the workbench, John has removed his jacket and jumper and rolled his shirt sleeve up.  I hold the equipment out to him.

 “I’ll let you do the honours”, he tells me, offering his arm.  Without hesitation, I tighten the tourniquet around his arm, and John clenches and unclenches his fist a few times to get the blood flowing.  I tap the inner bend of his arm until a nice healthy vein sticks out.  I ready the needle and look up to John to get his final consent, but John is not looking at me.  In fact, he is looking as far away from his arm as is physically possible for him to do.

 “John”, I ask, careful to keep the amusement out of my voice.  “Are you scared of needles?” The irony of a doctor scared of one tiny little needle is not lost on me.

 “No.  Just take the blood.”  He sounds tense, and the words came out through clenched teeth.

 I smile.  “You are.  You’re terrified of needles.” I can no longer keep the amusement out of my voice, and at this, John’s head whips around and he glares at me.

 “Do you want the blood or not?” he asks shortly.

 I let my grin widen.  “I want you to admit that you are scared of needles”, I tell him.

 “Just take the damn sample, Sherlock.  I am not sitting here all day”, he practically growls.

 “What, like you have somewhere better to be?” I snort.  “I doubt it.  So, _Doctor_ ”, I emphasise the title,  “how is it that such a strong, level-headed man such as yourself is scared of a tiny little syringe?”

 John lets out a long angry breath through his nose.  “Sherlock.  Just take the god-damn blood all ready.”

 I hold up a small vial, filled with John’s crimson blood, giving it a little wiggle.

 “Thank you, Doctor.  You were an exemplary patient.  Would you like a lollipop?”  I ask as I release the tourniquet and give John a small piece of gauze to hold over the small puncture.

 John holds the gauze over the pin prick and glares up at me with a look that tells me exactly what I can do with that lollipop.  I take the vial of blood around to where I was working and fill out a form, leaving the sample unnamed.  I wander through to Molly’s office and hand her the items, telling her that I need the test run as soon as possible with the results emailed to me.  I let her know that this is for a private case and is no way related to what we are working on with Scotland Yard.  I then ask her to text me when the results from the actual case are ready, and make my way back out to John.  He is just replacing his jacket when I arrive.  “Lunch?” I ask, picking up the rubbish from the blood extraction and binning it.

 “Sure”, John replies, back to his normal, calm self.

 

~o~

 

Two days later, an email arrives in my inbox from Molly.  John’s blood comes back all clear.  As I thought, no nasty STI’s lurking.  This information comes through not two minutes before I receive a text from Lestrade.  There has been a third victim, but this time there was a witness.  This is the break we have needed.  So far, what little evidence had been left at the scenes has been inconclusive.  A possible witness could be all we need to close this one.  I call John, and together we head out to bring down yet another criminal.

 

~o~

 

Eighteen hours later, we enter 221B Baker Street again.  We have just spent the past four hours chasing a deluded geneticist around East London.  It had been an interesting chase; the self-taught surgeon (even John had been impressed with the way he carefully removed the body parts) knew the city almost as intimately as myself.  But it had all come to an end when John, surprising me again, had left my side to cut through a shopping mall, coming out the back entrance to literally bowl Dr Terrance Weston over as he flew out the door.  It hadn’t taken long for things to wrap up, and now we are back home, and I can still feel the thrill of the chase running through my veins.  I hang my coat up as John does the same and, as we turn to face each other, I can tell that he also still has adrenaline coursing through his body.

 He looks up to me, mouth open as if to say something, half grin on his face, but then stops.  For a few brief seconds, we just look at each other, then very slowly John moves forward, stretching his neck up towards me, his face angling back.  My heart stutters as I prepare myself for what I know is coming, for what I have been waiting nearly three months for.  I move my head forward, just a fraction of an inch, and….

 John draws back.  “I…” he stammers.  ‘I.  Must be not enough sleep”, he is mumbling, his hands raising to his eyes, rubbing at them with the heel of his palms.  He looks back up to me as he takes a step back.  “Must be time for bed…to sleep….knackered”, and he turns around and marches out of the room up the stairs to his bedroom.  Without me.  I want to scream up at him out of sheer frustration.  I want to yell at him to come down here and finish what he started.  Instead, I storm to my room and slam the door shut, throwing myself on my bed.  I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling above me.  Up to where John’s room is.  I can hear him moving around before he lays back on his bed, and then everything above me is quiet.  I run through the last ten minutes.  John next to me.  John moving towards me.  John was going to kiss me.  We were so close.  Why did he stop?  Why did he pull back?  It was clear that I also wanted him to do it.  Why is he so bloody stubborn about stepping over the line from friendly relationship to sexual relationship?  I sit up and strip my jacket and shirt off, throwing them to the ground.  I then kick off my shoes and toe off my socks, finally removing my trousers, not once getting up off of my bed.  It was extra work, but it helps to work out some of the frustration I am feeling.  Not enough though.  I roll over and try to ignore the extra volume of blood that has taken up residence between my legs.  I should get up and shower, but honestly, I don’t want to, so I flip back over onto my back and shove my hand down my pants, grabbing my near fully hard cock.  This is not going to be slow or gentle.  I bring up the image of John’s face, his eyes almost black, his skin slightly flushed, his lips opened partly, tip of his tongue resting on his bottom lip.  I picture him as he moved closer to me, the way his breath came out in short, unsteady pants, the way his face angled up to meet mine.  My hand moves fast and hard over my cock.  I am not surprised at how quickly I feel heat pooling up in my lower abdomen, at how I feel my balls tighten.  The frustration of not getting what I want turns into a hot white ball of lust, and I take the image from just before further.  I imagine John leaning up, his mouth meeting mine in a hot, filthy kiss, his body pushing against mine as he ruts up against me.  The feel of his erection against my thigh, the friction of his hip rubbing against my own.  My hand moves faster, and, with a final flick of my thumb over the head and one final pull down, hot come is streaming out of the tip into my clenched hand;a low, hungry growl leaves my mouth as my head arches back on the pillow.  Slowly, I relax, and my breathing evens out.  I close my eyes with my hand still down my pants, full of cooling come and soft penis, and I fall asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRYPANOPHOBIA = A fear of injections is apparently an affliction of approximately 20% of the worlds population.


	9. Oh, John!  What Green Eyes You Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives John one more push in his attempt at seduction, but has he pushed too far?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now edited by the wonderful leyley09

~~~~~~~~~~

It is time to push _Make-John-Mine_ up a notch or two.  The almost kiss from two nights ago has confirmed that my assumptions are correct.  John does definitely feel the same way about me, but something is holding him back.  I just need to break that barrier in order for him to be comfortable with pursuing a relationship with me.  It is all I can do not to steamroll in and take what I want from John, as the last three months have left me beyond frustrated.  It has taken too long.  I had never expected for John to be so damn stubborn, but then again, he has always surprised me.  In saying that, I have also surprised myself.  I am by no means a patient man - anyone who has met me will attest to that - but I have handled myself (no pun intended) rather well throughout this ridiculous courtship.  Yes, I am calling it a courtship, because I am convinced that, on some sub-level of his consciousness, John is aware of what is happening.  But I am on more unstable ground now than I have been throughout this whole ordeal.  John is on the edge, ready to take that final step.  If I suddenly push too hard, he may trip and fall, and all of my hard work will have been for naught.  He needs to step over that finishing line of his own free will, and he is so close.  And since my advances are not convincing enough to make John realise what everyone else can see - that this is what he wants (yes, I do listen to the rumours that float around Scotland Yard and Bart’s) - maybe the advances of someone else will.  It is either this or climbing naked into John’s bed, while he sleeps, and hoping he gets the point.  I don’t think that will go down too well, so plan A it is.

 Tonight, John is going out with Lestrade.  There is a match of some game or other down at the pub, and they are meeting up with some other members of Scotland Yard to get mildly inebriated and watch said match.  John stopped inviting me to these monotonous social gatherings after I told him that if I wanted to sit in a room full of sweaty men who have temporarily lost what few precious mental faculties they have whilst watching someone, not intelligent enough to obtain a real career, chase around a ball, I would drug the tea at Mycroft’s precious Diogenes club (again) and let loose a handful of helium filled balloons.  At least they wouldn’t try and get me to chat.

 It is just as John is about to announce that he is leaving and if I need anything that is not life threatening then not to contact him that I step out of my bedroom dressed for battle.

 John’s mouth had opened to start his little speech, which I get every night he goes out to the pub, but gets stuck there as he takes in my appearance.  Black fitted tee-shirt and dark, tight jeans over a pair of black boots.  Hair carefully styled, more so than normal.  After taking a few seconds to gather himself, John finally manages to shut his mouth and attempts to talk again.  At first, it comes out as a squeak, but then he clears his throat and tries again.  “You going out somewhere?” he asks, sounding forcefully casual.

 “Yep”, I reply, popping the _p_.

 “Case?” He asks sounding a bit confused.  He is probably wondering why he wasn’t invited to participate.

 “Nope”, again with the popping of the _p_.  I grab my wallet off the table and slide it into my back pocket.  I can feel John, behind me, watching the action.

 “So…so, just…out, then.”

 I turn and face him, observing as his eyes quickly dart from where they were looking at my arse to focusing on something just over my right shoulder.  “Yes, John”, I respond as I stride over to the door and take my coat off the hook, swinging it on.   “Just to a club I visit on the odd occasion.  I figured it has been a while; you are going out, and I have nothing to do at home, so it might be time to head out again.  Don’t know what time I will be home; don’t wait up” and with that, I slide my phone into my pocket and I walk out.

 

~o~

 

God, that was an enervating experience.  Four hours I spent at the club.  Now I know why I stopped going, although I don’t remember clubs being quite so crowded or the music being so mind numbingly repetitive.   I make my way up the stairs as quietly as I can, as I don’t want to wake up Mrs Hudson.  When I get into the flat, it is quiet.  Either John has come home and gone to bed, or John is still out.  I shed my coat and make my way into the bathroom.  I need a shower.  I can still smell the excessive amount of aftershave that the brunette who I let rub all over me was wearing.  It probably wouldn’t have been too bad if it had been worn in moderation, but I am convinced he had soaked himself in it overnight.  I run the hot water and shiver, as I can still feel his hands trying to make his way under my shirt.  A short scoff escapes my lips.  As if he was ever going to get that far.  No, I had only needed him for one thing, which I got, finally, after over an hour of letting him practically maul me.  As the water heats up, I walk to the mirror, pulling off my tee-shirt.  There it is.  A dark purple mark, just above my collarbone.  Low enough that it wouldn’t be seen while wearing a button up shirt, but high enough to be seen while lounging around in my pyjamas.  I climb into the shower and, using an over generous amount of shower gel, I scrub the smell of….I honestly can’t remember his name out of my skin.  I then wash my hair to get the general smell of night club out of it.  When I turn off the water and step out of the shower, I can hear movement in the flat.  I quickly towel off, and then make my way to my room where I pull on my pyjamas, making sure the neck line is pulled unevenly to the right, exposing the bruise.

 “You’re home”, I casually observe, although unnecessarily, as I make my way out into the kitchen.  John turns from the counter, where he is preparing a cup of tea, and gives me a quick glance, turning back to the bench and pulling down another cup from the cupboard.

 “Obviously”, he replies in a bad imitation of me and chuckles at his own joke.  I roll my eyes and move to my arm chair and sit down.  Either he doesn’t care about the hickey, or he didn’t see it.

 “Good night out?” I ask, feigning interest.  I honestly couldn’t care less if John had a pleasurable evening or a truly horrid one.  I really just want him to pay attention to me.

 John comes over and hands me my cup.  “Apparently not as good as yours”, he answers.  I kill a smirk before it spreads across my face as I note the disapproval in his voice.  Obviously his first glance was an un-observing one.

 “Mmm”, I agree apathetically, stretching my legs out and resting my head on the back of my arm chair.  “It wasn’t the best night out I have had, but it certainly wasn’t wasted I suppose.”  John doesn’t respond, but I can feel the glare he is throwing my way. The feeling causes goose bumps to ripple over my arms. “So, did your team win?” I ask, aiming to get a response out of him in one form or another.  I raise my head, to take a sip of tea, and see that he is now looking at the fireplace, brow furrowed, lips pursed.  He doesn’t look angry, just unhappy.  I feel proud success and guilt at the same time.  It is not a pleasant feeling.

 John gives a small sigh and looks back at me.  “Liverpool 2, Arsenal 0.”

 “Ah”, I reply, again feigning interest.  “That’s…good.”  I try to sound like I know exactly what that means, but I have no idea, and it comes out more like a question.

 John suppresses a chuckle.  “Not really.  I was backing Arsenal.”

 We sit in silence while we finish our tea.  It isn’t the most comfortable silence, but it is better than a few moments before.  Deciding that tonight had served its purpose and I hadn’t wasted four hours in a nightclub for nothing, I make the decision to retire to my room for the remainder of the evening.  John has seen the bruise that had been sucked onto my neck and has shown signs of jealousy.

 Conclusion:  This method of getting John’s attention to where it needs to be is working.

 Further Conclusion:  Push it a bit further.

 I stand up and make my way to the kitchen, giving John’s shoulder a quick squeeze on the way past.  “Goodnight, John”, I call as I drop my cup in the sink and make my way to my room, only just hearing the quiet reply of “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

 

~o~

 

The following two nights I go out, without informing John until I am just about to walk out the door, and not once do I invite him to join me.  Although it would be much more bearable if he were with me, it would also prove inimical to my cause.  I dress up in clothes similar to the first night and leave with a “Goodnight John.  Don’t wait up.”  And then I make my way to the club to suffer through another four hours of what almost amounts to torture, before I head home to where John is waiting up for me.

 The second night, I come home smelling of cologne that is clearly not mine, and I make sure I stand next to John as he fills the kettle when I arrive home.   The cologne belonged to an Asian man that I spent a good portion of the evening letting grind against me.  He had clearly enjoyed it, judging by the average sized bulge that was pressing into my thigh for the entirety of the evening.  John abandons his tea and goes to bed instead.

 Last night, I came home and emptied my pockets onto the coffee table.  Wallet, phone, keys, drink coaster with a neat elegant scrawl reading _Giles_ , followed by a phone number and an email address underneath the name of the club.  Giles was an accountant with a head of ginger hair.  We chatted all night, and I let him buy me drinks while I fed his ego.  It truly is a blessing that I am so good at lying and have no qualms about doing it to get what I want. ( _To be honest, I have no qualms about doing it even when it is not for gain_.)  And I did get what I wanted:  proof that I had been hit on.  Not only had I had to praise the stupid git to gain this information, I also had to suffer him trying to grope me under the table at which we were sitting. The thought of John, waiting up for me at home, was what stopped me from pointing out that he would never have a hope in hell with me because not only was he most definitely not my type, but I was also not prepared to take him home, tie him up, and _spank_ him, as the man he had found the previous night had obviously done, if the uncomfortable way he had been sitting all night and the abrasions around his wrists were anything to go by.  John eyed the contents of my pockets and went back to reading his novel while I went and had a shower.  When I came out, John had gone to bed, and Giles’ details were nowhere to be found.   

 That night I don’t sleep well as my head is pounding to the same beat that every song which the club plays seems to have.  Hopefully, one more night should do it, and then, unless someone has been murdered in the most spectacular way inside the club, I do not want to have to set foot in the place ever again.

 

~o~

 

Tonight, I decide to stay in.   The last night of my plan can wait until tomorrow.  Tonight, I want to spend with John; after all, the more time I spend with him, the more jealous he will feel while I am not here.   I lay on the couch, in my pyjamas, the top showing the now fading love bite I received the first night out.  John is yet to come back from an extended shift at the clinic.  It is getting late.  I had ordered Thai over an hour ago, and it is now sitting in the fridge, waiting to be re-heated.  How long does the clinic stay open anyway?  It is almost eight o’clock.  Just then I hear the door open and slow familiar footsteps making their way up the stairs.  John trudges in and hangs his coat up. He looks to the couch where I am laying.  I hold my hand up in a lazy wave to acknowledge his arrival, but I stay silent.  “Not going out tonight?” John asks, shuffling to the kitchen.

 “Apparently not”, I reply, bringing my hands under my chin, as if in prayer.  “There is take away in the fridge”, I let him know as I hear him carry out his tea making ritual.  I honestly don’t think I know anyone who drinks as much tea as John Watson.  I would be a close second, but only since that day when John had settled comfortably into my life at 221B Baker Street.

 “Sorry, I’ve already eaten”, John tells me as he slowly makes his way into the living room, placing my cup on the table next to the sofa.  His eyes purposely avoid my neck, as it has these past three days.  I frown in confusion.  John never goes out for a meal without asking me first.  Unless, of course, it is a date, but John hasn’t seen anyone for over a month now.  “I had to follow a patient to the hospital.  Once I was finished there, I bumped into Mike.  We stopped for a bite at the café around the corner.  I just assumed you were going out again, otherwise I would have called.” I couldn’t help but note the slight astringent tone to his voice.

 Mike Stamford.  One of the few people to tolerate me and my…me-ness, but that is only because he is a compulsive people pleaser.  An all-round great sort of guy, tolerable even.  Except tonight.  Tonight, he kept John away from me, while I had wanted him here.  With me.  Tonight, Mike Stamford was one of the most intolerable, hateful people I have ever known.  I make a mental note to swipe his access card to the labs next time I see him.

 “So, why aren’t you?” I hear John ask over my whirling thoughts on how much I dislike Mike tonight.  My gaze snaps to John, sitting in his chair, sipping his tea.  He looks tired.  Despite us having no cases to keep him up, he had been waiting up for me after my nights out, despite having early shifts at the clinic all this week.  I know I should feel bad for keeping him awake, but, in all fairness, I did tell him not to wait up for me.  That, and it has been vital to my cause that he be awake when I get home.

 “Aren’t I, what?” I ask, taking my hands from under my chin and folding them on my stomach, just above the waistband of my pyjamas.  I watch John’s eyes follow the movement, followed by a flick of his tongue.  His gaze moves back up to mine.

 “Going out again”, he finally answers.

 I shrug and roll my head back so I am staring up at the ceiling.  The water mark I noticed just over two months ago hasn’t gotten any bigger.  Mrs Hudson must have had someone fix it. “Felt like staying in”, I tell him, and then close my eyes.  After a few moment of silence- well vocal silence anyway; the sound of John thinking is like listening to a pack of wild dogs running up the stairs- John stands up.  “I think I am in for an early one”, he announces and makes his way towards the stairs.

 “Goodnight, John”, I say as he walks past the end of the couch.

 There is no response as he leaves the room.

 

~o~

 

I wake up to the sound of John moving around the kitchen.  I look to the clock.  Nine o’clock.  I frown.  He should be at work by now.  Slowly, I drag myself out of bed and make my way into the kitchen, pulling my dressing gown on along the way.  Sure enough, there is John, making tea and cooking eggs.

 “Breakfast?” he asks as I shuffle into the kitchen.  My bare foot snags on something sticky.  I make a note to spill something visible there so either John or Mrs Hudson will mop it up, and then hum out an affirmative _Hmm_ to John’s question and plonk down onto the kitchen chair, watching John’s back as he moves around the kitchen.

 “Shouldn’t you be at work?” I yawn out.  I honestly had no intentions of being out of bed until at least midday.

 He shrugs.  “Decided on a day off, after yesterday.  Called in to let them know I wasn’t well.”

 This is most unlike John.  John never skives off of work unless there is a legitimate reason.  I know; I have tried to get him to call in sick on various occasions just so he can stay home and entertain me.  I have never had any luck.  My mind starts ticking over, trying to deduce what John is up to.  “Yet, you seem fine”, I observe out loud.  Again, John shrugs.

 “Yesterday really was a bitch of a day.  Didn’t sleep well last night.  Don’t want to go in only half aware and mistake someone’s conjunctivitis for gonorrhoea.”

 “I’m no doctor, John, but on a bad day, not even I could mistake one for the other”, I tell him.

 Again, he shrugs.  “I just really didn’t feel like going into work today”, he responds simply, and I know that that is all I am going to get out of him on the subject.  A few minutes later, John places a plate of toast and eggs and a cup of tea in front of me, and then sits across from me with his own plate and mug.

 “So, do you have any plans for today?” I ask after we have been eating in silence for several minutes.

 John forks another mouthful of egg into his mouth and shakes his head.

 We go back to eating in silence.  I have John, all to myself, all day, unless of course a case crops up.  As usual, I formulate a plan to work this to my advantage.  “I have a few errands to run today.  You are welcome to join me if you wish.”

 John gives me an unbelieving look, mug paused halfway to his mouth.  “You.  Running errands?”

 “Yes, John.  Errands.  Small jobs and tasks that need to be carried out.  Can range in an array of different activities for countless reasons.”  I don’t understand why that is so hard to understand.

 John swallows a mouthful of tea before adding to the conversation.  “I am well aware of what an errand is; I just didn’t think that you carried any out.”

 “Of course I carry out errands, John.  What do you think I do with my days while you are at work?”

 John stares at me for half a second before answering.  “When you are not working on a case?  Lie on the couch”, he offers.  He is not wrong.  That is how I spend quite a lot of my spare time.  Chores are so boring.  But not today, not if I can get John to come with me.

 “Well, if you decide you have nothing better to do”, I offer as I stand up from the kitchen table, “I should be ready to leave in about half an hour.” I turn and walk to my room to get ready for the day, making up a list of errands that suddenly need doing.

 

~o~

 

Our first stop is to my tailor.  It is a completely unnecessary stop, as I have an abundance of clothes, and John is quick to point this out.

 “Yes, well, you will keep on insisting that I eat more, John, and that only leads to my clothes no longer fitting me”, I tell him.  This is a lie.  My clothes are still perfectly tailored to my body.  In fact, I have several items of clothing that have been altered, since John took up residence in Baker Street, to account for any weight gain I may have; as of yet, these items, which look identical to my normal items of clothing, have yet to see the light of day despite my increase of food intake.  As I usher John inside the store, I hear him mumble something about _clothes that you have to be sewn into_ and _buttons threatening to pop_.  A small smile lights my face at the amount of notice he takes of my clothing.

 

As suspected, Julian is on hand today.  I had hoped that he would be, as Julian is somewhat overly friendly, but poses no threat. Not that John will see it that way.

 “Ah, Sherlock Holmes”, Julian greets with a beaming smile.  “It has been too long.  You look wonderful, as always.”

 “Julian”, I greet him back, and accept the hug that he offers me, returning the action.  I can practically sense John stiffening up behind me.

 “And, who is your…friend?” Julian asks, unsure.  I see the look on his face as the perfectly groomed tailor runs a glance over John.  It is clear that he is unimpressed with John’s black and white striped jumper (one of the better ones in his collection) and jeans, both of which are off the rack from whatever department store John happened to stumble across. I take note of the barely concealed sneer.  I have been thinking for a while now that it was time to find a new tailor.  If Julian were even half the man John Watson was, he would be a very lucky man indeed.  But not today.  Today, I need Julian; therefore, I shall use him to my advantage.

“Julian, this is my flatmate, John.” I place my hand on Julian’s upper arm, while holding my other hand out towards John.  John is clearly not impressed with Julian at all.  This is going well.  “John, this is my long time tailor, Julian.”

 “It’s a pleasure”, Julian all but sneers, before promptly turning his attention back to me.  “And how can I be of service today?” he asks, the trained sales grin returning to his face.

 “I seem to have put on some weight these past few months”, I tell Julian, ignoring John’s attempt at smothering a scoff.  “Therefore, I need another refitting.”

 “You carry it well, Sherlock.  You cannot tell that you have put on the slightest ounce”, and he places his hands on my shoulders and holds me back to get a better look.  “Come through to the dressing rooms, and we will get your measurements.”  He then turns to John.  “Feel free to wait out here.  We won’t be too long.”

 Nope, this won’t do.  John needs to see Julian at work.  “Nonsense”, I inject, “John would be dreadfully bored out here”, and I turn to make my way to the dressing rooms.  “Come along, John.  Don’t be shy”, I call as I stride to the back of the store.  As predicted, John follows, after Julian announces that he won’t be too long.  He just has to locate Hilda to watch the front counter.

 I enter the furthest room and start stripping off, starting with my shoes and socks.  John stutters to a halt.  “I’ll just wait out here then”, he mutters and turns to leave.

 I roll my eyes.  For someone who spent ten years in the army surrounded by and in close quarters with many men and who sees semi-naked bodies on a regular basis as part of his job, he is certainly prudish.  “Don’t be absurd, John.  This could take a while, despite what Julian says.  You will get bored.  Just sit down”, my hand gestures to the wingback chair in the corner of the dressing room, “and read a magazine or something.”  I hang my shirt and jacket on the hangers provided and have just finished slipping off my trousers as Julian enters.

 “Eager to get started, I see”, the small man practically squeaks as he enters the room, shutting the door behind him.  He rubs his hands together, warming them up.  I look out the corner of my eye to where I can see John pretending to read an article in _Numero_ and clearly not looking at me in my underwear.  I wonder how long it will take him to realise that it is written in French.

 “I assume you have many clients today”, I tell Julian, sounding as serious as possible.  I have noted that it is always beneficial to make the little man feel important.  “Just thought I would speed things along.”

 Julian pulls out a small notepad and pen from his pocket and places it on the small table next to us.  He then whips the measuring tape from around his neck (he does like to overdramatise) and starts measuring, jotting down notes in his little notebook.  When Julian asks me to turn, I do and continue watching John in the mirror.  I see John’s eyes peek over the top of the magazine, but he is not watching me.  He is watching Julian’s hands as they work around my body, not actually making contact with my skin, but getting close to some rather intimate parts of my anatomy.  I don’t believe I have ever seen John’s eyes so dark under that frown he wears when he does not approve of something.  I bite my bottom lip, keeping my face neutral just in case he does look up to the mirror.  I could be nice and let John in on the fact that, despite the overzealous way Julian acts and speaks, he is not actually gay.  In fact, he is quite a womaniser, but where would the fun be in letting John in on that little fact?

 It is not long before the measurements are done.  Julian looks confused (as, face it, there actually haven’t been any changes in my measurements), but he doesn’t say anything.  I redress and make my way out to the front of the store where, to keep face, I order three shirts and another suit.

 Our next stop is to a massage parlour which happens to be only two blocks away from the tailors, so we decide to walk.  “So”, John asks after a few moments of silence.  “Known Julian long?”

 I inhale slowly as if I am trying to think about the answer.  I already know the answer, of course.  Four years, two months, two weeks, and five days.  “Three or four years”, I finally answer.

 “Seems to know his way around your…body…pretty well”, John says, trying to sound nonchalant.  Would have passed too, if he hadn’t stumbled on the word _body_ and wasn’t chewing on his bottom lip to the point where I am scared he is going to break the skin.

 “Hmm.  I suppose; it is his job after all.  He gets paid well to become...familiar...with people’s bodies.”  I make sure to let the last word come out slower than the rest of the sentence.  John just gives a small nod, and we continue to walk in silence.

 Before long, we are at the massage parlour.  I lead John into the building, and we are met by a giant of a man, all blonde hair, blue eyes, and well defined muscles on every inch of his body.  “Sherlock!” he booms (his Swedish accent extremely evident in just those two syllables), holding out his hand.

 “Sven”, I return, taking his hand and giving it a quick shake. Out of the corner of my eye, I see John bite back a grin at the typical stereotype.

 “My Farmor will be so excited that I see you.  She still asks about you, ja.”

 “Send her my best wishes”, I tell him. Despite what John thinks, I do actually know how to be civil.  I just choose not to be, unless it is for personal gain, and today is all about personal gain.

 “So, you want massage?  I have wonderful girl, you will love her.  Your friend too!”  Sven finally acknowledges John, and it is with genuine delight, unlike Julian’s clear disdain for him.

 “Not today, sorry, Sven.  Today, I am just in need of some more massage oil, the almond one.  I seem to go through it at an alarming rate.”  At least, if the last massage I gave is any indication, I would like to go through it at an alarming rate.  I notice John’s shoulders straighten at the mention of the massage oil, his hands unconsciously pressing against the sides of his thighs.

 “For you, my Sherlock, anything.” I had forgotten how cheerful Sven was.  Hell, he seemed cheerful when he was being tried for eight counts of arson three years ago.

 “Four bottles, if you have them”, I request casually.  John’s head snaps around to look at me, eyebrows raised.  I can practically hear his thoughts ‘ _Who are you using so much oil on?_ ’

 “My, who is the lucky person?” Sven can’t possibly know that John is practically thinking the same thing, and he grins with a slight waggle of his eyebrows in John’s direction.  I note, but don’t comment on, the faint flush that covers John’s cheeks.  Sven then turns his attention back to me and lets out a dramatic sigh.  “You have wonderful fingers, my friend.  The offer still stands to train you up to be a massage therapist.  You would be very popular”, and he walks to a cabinet filled with different bottles and tubs of all sorts of gels, oils, and lotions.  He grabs four brown bottles and carries them over to the counter where he bags them up for me.

 “It is a wonderful offer, Sven, but I must decline”, I tell him, for the fifth time (it won’t be the last) and hand over the money.

 “I know”, the masseuse sighs.  “You cannot leave your work”, he says as he hands the bag and the change back to me.  I note that it is not exactly change, as it is the exact same amount I gave to him, just in different denominations.  It is the same every time I make a purchase here.

 “It was good to see you again, Sherlock Holmes.  You keep well”, he tells me.  I give him a small wave in return, and John and I exit the building.

 “He seems nice.  Very cheerful”, John comments.  He seems to genuinely like Sven.

 “Very cheerful”, I agree.  “His grandmother, or _Farmor_ , came to me three years back to help get him off several arson charges.  He was cheerful even then.  I am quite certain he doesn’t know how _not_ to be cheerful.”

 We walk along in silence for a bit before John speaks.  “That’s a lot of oil you bought.  Give out many massages?”  Again, he tries to hide his disappointment behind something else.  This time, I am pretty sure it was meant to come out as a joke.  It comes across almost forlorn.

 “Sometimes”, I reply simply, not offering any more information.  I would like to give John many massages.  I would like for John to give them to me.  The thought of his oily hands gliding over my naked body, pushing the skin, kneading the muscle…I pull my coat closed and button it up.  Time to change my train of thought.

 “So, what’s next on the list?” John asks, thankfully pulling me out of my thoughts.

 “One more errand to run”, I tell him.  I hail a cab, and we make our way to a small store in Soho.  The taxi pulls up in front of a row of stores, and John and I exit the vehicle. I pay the cabbie while John looks at the various store fronts.  I could leave him guessing all day, and I guarantee he will never pick the one I intend to drag him into.  To be fair, it is not one that I would ever step foot into unless it was for a case, but today, I make an exception.  I walk up to the shop in front of us.  “Coming John?” I ask as I notice the absence of footsteps behind me.  Two seconds later, hurried footsteps follow me into the store.

 “Is this for a case?” John asks quietly as we walk past racks of women’s nightwear.  Well, it is called nightwear, but it would be just as effective to wear nothing at all to bed.

 “Nope”, I tell him as I weave through racks of bras, varying in size, shape, and practicality.

 “Then, what could you possibly want from here?” John asks, trying to keep his voice low so the shop attendant won’t hear.

 My answer comes in the form of a sudden halt in front of the back wall of the store.  I hear the stifled snicker as John looks up at the display of men’s lingerie before us.  Normally, I would also snicker, as most of it is quite ridiculous, but that would not suit my purpose today so instead, I make a show of seriously looking at the vast array of underwear before me, weighing up my options.  Which ones would get John to blush the hardest?  Just then the shop attendant comes to the back of the store to _attend_.

 “Can I help you boys with anything?” She asks in a very tampered down Welsh accent.  Her name is Gail, according to the badge attached to her shirt.

 John, suppressing what would be a ridiculously large grin, usually accompanied by a chuckle, waves his hand in my direction.  It is my turn to suppress the smile when John’s face drops at the sale girl’s next words.

 “We have a two for one sale if you boys are after matching items”, Gail tells us with a cheeky wink in John’s direction.

 “No”, he blurts out quickly.  I turn to the wall, my smirk no longer able to be contained.  “No…not match…We are not looking together”, he finally spits out.  I don’t have to look to know what shade of red he is turning.  I am pretty sure it is the same shade as the pair of pants hanging in front of me.  ( _John might like those_.)  Instead, I reach out for a pair of tiny leather shorts, which lace up at the front.

 “I am quite capable of choosing my own pants”, I tell the girl as she turns to me, not giving her a chance to speak.

 “Right then”, she replies with a smile that seems genuine.  I study her closer.  Her glance is trying not to shift to John, who is now nervously shuffling his feet, his eyes looking down at their progress.  I look back to Gail.  She also finds his predicament amusing.  “I’ll just be at the front of the store, should you decide you need assistance”, and with that, she turns and walks away, giving John another cheeky wink as she walks past him.  I think I like Gail.

 “I’ll just wait for you…back here”, John says from behind me, as I turn my attention back to the wall in front of me.  I don’t look to see what is _back here_ , but I am sure it is nothing that John would be interested in purchasing, unless he has managed to keep a secret fetish of women’s underwear from me (I seriously doubt that).  John is a terrible liar and even worse at hiding secrets, even to the most unobservant people.

 I pick up a tiny piece of cloth and chains.  It looks uncomfortable, and the chain that would inevitably run up between my arse cheeks is made from a series of metal links that start from 1 and a half centimetres at the top, to miniscule where they travel down to meet the purple silk.  It would chafe something shocking, possibly causing serious damage, but, due to the fact that I have absolutely _no_ intentions of wearing any of these items, I pull a pair off the rack.  It is deep purple in colour; well, the small scrap of material that would presumably support the genitals is, and it matches a shirt which I sometimes wear that I know catches John’s attention every time.  I save that shirt for very special occasions.

 With the two pairs of useless pants in my hand, I decide on one more pair, and then we can go home.  Running unnecessary errands is extremely tiring, although John’s reactions have been somewhat pleasant, to me at least.  I finally spot the pair that will finalise my selection.  I reach up to the top rack and pull down two pairs.

 “John”, I call out, “What do you think?  Black or white?” I ask, holding up two pair of clearly see-through, fine mesh pants.  John looks up from where he is trying not to look at anything in particular, and his cheeks start to go red again.  I am not sure if it is because of the items I am holding up, or if it is because I am gaining his opinion from across the other side of the shop.  Somewhere from the front of the shop, I hear Gail give a quiet chuckle.  That in itself makes me want to break out in a grin, but I keep my features schooled into what I know is a contemplative look, as if I truly am undecided on what colour would be best.

 John’s mouth opens once, twice, and then he clamps both lips in between his teeth as if he is afraid of what may come out of his mouth. I cock an eyebrow impatiently.  “Well?” I ask.

 “Uhh..umm…black, I suppose…matches the others.” He offers lamely, and then turns back and makes his way further to the front of the store.  I don’t hide the grin as I replace the white pair and then make my way to the front of the store, but not before snagging a pair of the red pants I spied earlier.  John would look rather fine in them.

 Gail is waiting for me at the checkout with a barely suppressed chuckle.  “That was wickedly evil”, she murmurs quietly, but the grin on her face tells me that she doesn’t disapprove.

 “It breaks the tedium”, I tell her, sliding over Mycroft’s credit card.  It amazes me that he still hasn’t cancelled it after the Silver Dragon incident.  I suppose one day he will send me the bill, not that I have any intention of ever repaying it.

 Gail laughs silently, brushing the corner of her eye with her thumb.  I smile, glad someone else also finds this amusing.  “You have a lovely day”, she tells me, no longer using a hushed voice and handing over a glaringly pink paper bag containing my new purchases.  “You too, John”, she calls over my shoulder, and the chuckle finally breaks free as I hear John leave the store.  I follow John, with my pink paper bag, and join him on the sidewalk outside.

 “Enjoy yourself?” John asks as I come up to stand next to him.  I did.  Immensely.  But I don’t tell John this.  That would be a bit not good.

 “No, I can’t say that I did.  I do find buying underwear a rather boring task”, I reply flatly, raising my hand to hail a cab.

 “The sales assistant seemed to be enjoying herself”, John huffed, which completely ruined his attempt at not sounding huffy, as he opens the cab door and slides in.

 “She works in an underwear store.  I can only assume many things would amuse her.  It is not like her job would be otherwise overly entertaining”, I answer as I slide in next to John.  I place my purchases on the seat in between us and look sideways towards John.  He is staring down at the purchases.

 “I never took you as a kinky underwear sort of guy”, he finally says, looking from the bags to his window.

 I give a small shrug.  “You know how it is”, I tell him, watching his reflection under the pretence of also looking out of his window.  “When you want to impress someone.  You have your red pants.” I am sure I can almost hear the blood rushing to John’s cheeks. “I have, well, these”, I explain, my hand slowly passing over the top of the bags between us.

 “And a lot of people see your pants, then?” John tries to sound jovial.  It doesn’t quite come out like that though, and he still doesn’t look at me.

 “Not a lot”, I tell him, “But the purpose is for someone to see them, yes.”  There is no answer from John, and the rest of the ride home is in silence.

 The remainder of the afternoon passes the way any uneventful day does at 221B Baker Street.  John reads the paper, attempting the crossword.  I lounge on the couch, complaining that I am bored.  John makes us tea.  I sit on the couch, complaining that I am bored.  John tries to talk me into doing something.  I lay on the couch and tell him that all of his suggestions are boring.  The afternoon turns into evening.  John orders take out since neither of us (John) thought to go to the shops to get anything for dinner while we were carrying out errands.  Once the meal is consumed, I get up off of the couch and have a shower.  Once out, I towel off, shave, apply aftershave, brush my teeth, style my hair, go into my room, and pull out a particularly tight pair of black jeans and a tight, dark blue tee shirt.  Getting dressed, I think about how tonight will play out.  John knows where I go now.  And he thinks he knows what I am wearing under these jeans.  If he actually observed and not just saw how tight they were, he would realise that I was in actual fact not wearing anything under them.  Tonight, I fully expect to see John at the club, preferably while I have some random guy’s arms around me and tongue down my throat.  I pull out the mesh pants, black per John’s request, from the pink paper bag which is still sitting on my bed and stuff them under my pillow.  If John decides to go through the bag, he will have a false image of me in a pair of ridiculous, but apparently sexy, black see-through pants.  Tying up the laces on my boots, I stand up and adjust my clothing.  I do a final check in the mirror, and then make my way out to the living room.

 “Feel like watching a mo….”, John’s voice breaks off as he looks up at me.  The easy look that was on his face falls into one of utter disappointment.  It is almost heart breaking.  I take a moment to examine that feeling, and then decide to push it aside for later.  "So, going out again?” he asks quietly.  His back is to me, and he is fiddling with the small selection of DVD’s in front of him.

 “Shouldn’t be too late”, I tell him, forcing myself to ignore his short tone and the angry set of his shoulders.  I slip into my coat, patting down my pockets to make sure everything I need is contained.  “Don’t wait up”, and with that, I swoop out of the room and down the stairs.  I really don’t feel like going to the club tonight, but if I am correct- and I am very rarely not- then tonight will be the night John follows me, and John needs to see this.  Nothing else has worked into pushing John over that final line.  This is the last card I have up my sleeve that will, hopefully, make John mine.  This has to work, so I hail a cab and give him the address for Fumo Blu.

 As usual, the club is busy.  Not so busy that I have to wait to get in, but busy enough for people to be on their way to drunk and easy.  It gives me time to scan the club before it gets too wild.  Within twenty minutes, I have my eye on three possible targets.  Two men who are clearly _out of the closet_ , and one who is here with his girlfriend but sussing out whether or not he might be attracted to men.  He is. Thirty minutes later, I have one rather tall, even for me, classically good looking blonde buying me drinks and running his hand up my leg.   Twenty minutes later, he has me pushed up against a wall and is running his tongue over my neck, and there is John, staring at me from across the room.  I don’t quite gauge the look in his eye as we make eye contact because about two seconds after I see him, I have my head pressed back against the wall further, giving the blonde (Simon?) more access to my neck.  My hands dip into his back pockets and pull him closer to me.  This causes Samuel (?) to growl into my neck, and when I look back to where John was, I see that he is no longer there.  That is my cue to give Seamus (?) the _sorry, it’s you, not me_ speech and head for home.

 “Sorry Steven, but this just isn’t working for me”, I say, sounding bored.  The blonde stops mauling my neck and looks up at me with a frown.

 “It’s Damian.” Wow, I was way off with this one, “And what do you mean it isn’t working for you?” he sneers.  He is clearly offended.

 “You are just not doing anything for me”, I tell him with an annoyed sigh.  “Don’t take offence.  Most people don’t.”

 Damian is clearly furious, and he crowds closer towards me.  I need to diffuse this situation now. “I’m sure if you approach the mousy brown in the black shirt behind you with this, he will be up for anything you want him to do to you”, I tell him pulling my hands out of his pockets.  I hold up the small bag of white powder that was in his pockets, my eyes looking over his shoulder to a man in his early thirties watching the two of us closely.  “He has been watching us, more so you in particular, for the past fifteen minutes.” I inform him as he quickly snatches the cocaine out of my hand, stuffing it back in his pocket.  He turns to look at the brunette behind him.  The smaller man gives him a shy smile and nods, holding up his glass, a clear indication of _please, come and join me_ if there ever was one.  Damian turns back to me and shrugs.  “Your loss”, he spits and pushes himself off of the wall, stalking towards the detective who is about to arrest him for possession of an illegal substance.  Sometimes, it is just too easy.  I sigh and push myself off of the wall and go to the coat room, scanning the bar to make sure John didn’t hang around to get a drink.  He is nowhere to be seen.  I grab my coat and go outside, where it is considerably cooler than when I entered the club and hail a taxi to take me home.  To my John.

 When I get home, the flat is dark.  And quiet. And empty.  John is not here.


	10. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has realised that not only has he sent John the wrong message, but he has also gotten in deeper than he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big warm thankies to leyley09 for editing!! :)

~~~~~~~~~~

John still isn’t home by the time I have showered and removed all traces of Damian.  He still isn’t home by the time I have had two cups of tea, and he still isn’t home after I have finished watching one of the DVD’s John had selected in the hope that I would settle down on the couch next to him tonight and watch something.  Maybe that is what I should have done.  I am starting to think that I have pushed John too far.  I think of the look he had on his face when he saw me at the club, literally wrapped around Damian. I have had time to analyse that look since I got home, without the distraction of lips and tongue and hands that weren’t John’s on me. It wasn’t a look of anger or of disappointment.  It was more like a look of resigned defeat. I don’t understand.  I thought he would be angry at the most.  I thought he would be here when I got home, frustrated, ready to push me against the wall and….The door downstairs opens.  I look at the time.  It is two o’clock.  I sit up and listen to him come up the stairs.  He moves slowly but steadily, so tired not drunk.  He reaches the landing just outside of the front door; I brace myself for the apology that I am pretty sure I need to give, but he doesn’t stop there.  He doesn’t even hesitate at the door.  He just continues up to his room.  This is clearly unusual behaviour for John.  Even at his most exhausted, he stops in the kitchen and makes himself a cup of tea every time he enters the flat.  It is practically compulsive behaviour, and although John’s footsteps sounded tired, in the past he has been more exhausted and still managed to make himself a cup of tea, as well as one for me.  The footsteps continue up to the level above me, and I hear John open his bedroom door and shut it again.  There is the muffled sound of clothes being dropped to the ground, followed by the groan of his bed as he lays down and gets comfortable.  Then there is nothing but silence.

 What do I do in this situation?  Do I go up and see if he is alright?  Do I let him sleep it off?  I get up and pace the living room floor.  Maybe I should try and get some sleep.  I immediately give that idea up as a lost cause.  My mind is far too active to even think about shutting it down.

 I drop to the couch and lie back in my standard thinking position.  I think back on everything that has happened since this seduction plan started.  The play on John’s oral fixation, the seductive eating of phallic-shaped foods, the walking around in especially tight clothing or barely anything at all, the obvious displays of arousal, the eleven days of being nice and considerate, the casual touches, the massage, the uncharacteristically playful phone conversation in Ivybridge, the unusual interest in John’s life, and the even more unusual offering of information about mine.  I stripped down in front of him today, while Julian measured me for new clothes; I made a point of buying more massage oil, lots of it, and "erotic" underwear.  Making it clearly obvious that yes I, Sherlock Holmes, am open to a sexually active relationship.  All of this to get John’s attention.  To plant the seed in John’s head that I want that relationship to be with him.  And it was working.  We have become a lot closer and more comfortable with each other.  He almost kissed me, right here in this room.  Obviously, he still needed convincing; therefore John needed more evidence.  He needed to see what it was he was missing, and I gave him that opportunity.  Why isn’t he blind with jealousy?  Why has he completely backed down?

 When I pull myself out of my thoughts, the first dull rays of sunlight are creeping into the room.  I pull myself up off of the couch, put the kettle on, and then walk to the desk in the living room to retrieve my violin.  I pick it up and start playing a piece I remember from my college days.  I don’t recall what it is or who its composer is, but the memory of it is still there. Before long - the boiled kettle forgotten - I have remembered the melody perfectly, and it mirrors the exact way I feel.  It is low and slow and mournful.  It is easy to get lost in as I stand in front of the window, eyes closed, playing it over and over again, one rendition seamlessly flowing into the next so it all sounds like one long, sad tune.  I become so lost in the piece that I do not notice that John has risen from bed and made his way downstairs.  I do not notice that he is standing in the doorway, watching me as I play.  I play the song over and over again until I can no longer stand the feeling that is clenching in my chest.  I finish the piece one last time, and then slowly lower my violin so it is hanging by my leg.  I open my eyes and look outside.  The day is grey and wet and miserable.   _Good_ , I think.  That is when John speaks.  I try to contain the involuntary jump my body gives, but it is to no avail.  “I didn’t know you were a Nine Inch Nails fan”, he says quietly.  I turn to look at him.  He looks normal.  Not angry; not disappointed; not sad.  Just like John.   I frown at him as his words sink in, and I realise that I have no idea what he is talking about.

 “The song you were playing”, he says half pointing to the violin resting by my leg, “It was _Hurt_ by Nine Inch Nails.”  Again, I frown.

 “How is a song hurt…What are you on about John?” I ask, annoyed at what is obviously nonsense coming out of John’s mouth.  He gives a small chuckle, and just like that things are back to normal again.  I cannot help but feel happy that we are at ease again, but also disappointed that we are nothing more.  John grins and shakes his head as he makes his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on.  

 “The song”, John says, looking over his shoulder at me as he takes down two mugs, “It is called Hurt.  It was sung by a band called Nine Inch Nails.  You played it perfectly, so I assumed you were a fan”, he says as he begins to prepare the tea.

 I look down at the violin in my hand, and then back at John.  “No, I can’t say I am.  Just remembered the tune from somewhere.  I don’t know where I heard it.”  I place the violin back on the table, and start to make my way to the kitchen before stopping myself.  Do I bring up last night, or do I let John bring it up?  Or do we just move on with life and pretend none of this has happened?  I move to my chair and drop down in it.  I don’t think that I can pretend that the last three months haven’t happened.  The more I worked towards moving John into a relationship with me, the more I realised that I can’t live with John just the way we are.  I also can’t live without him.  And I don’t know how to fix this.

 “Any plans today?” John asks, pulling me out of my reverie, handing me a steaming mug of tea.

 “Hmm?” I ask as I look up to him to take the cup from him, and the question sinks in.  “No, nothing on”, I mumble and sip the tea.  Perfect, as always.  “You?” I ask.

 “Work”, John answers, making his way back into the kitchen to prepare his breakfast.  “Missed yesterday, should probably not bail again today.  Toast?”  I shake my head.  The last thing I feel like doing now is eating.  I observe John as he moves around the kitchen making his breakfast, before he settles down at the kitchen table, yesterday’s newspaper spread out before him, slowly eating the jam smothered bread in his fingers.  He will finish that piece soon, and lick his finger and thumb because he always, _always_ , puts too much jam on his toast, and it makes his fingers sticky.  I smile as the end of each digit is quickly licked clean before picking up the next piece, and then it occurs to me.  It was John sticking his fingers in his mouth that started all of this.  It had turned me on at a rather inappropriate time and location, yet here I am, watching him do practically the same thing, and, although it is arousing, there is something else as well.  Something familiar and comfortable.  It is almost like a longing, and I want to hold onto that image.  I look down into my half empty mug.  The feeling of those great big butterflies are back in my stomach.  I think of all the small things that John does.  The little things that no one else would notice.  How he doesn’t untie his shoelaces, how he has a rather alarming amount of milk in his tea but takes his coffee black.  I take note of how he always puts the milk to the left side of the fridge and make a mental note to leave the left side of the fridge clear from now on.  I think of how he always washes the dishes in water hot enough to leave his hands red, but never dries them.  I remember how he orders the stir-fry from the Chinese shop without broccoli and asks for extra chilli in his pork vindaloo from our regular Indian place.  When he dozes on the couch, he doesn’t quite have a snore, but his breath huffs out rather than flows out smoothly.  He shaves before he showers but doesn’t brush his teeth until after, and there is, nine times out of ten, always the tiniest smudge of toothpaste in the left side corner of his mouth after he has finished.  When he is bored, he picks at his thumb nail with his index finger, but only on his right hand, and rather than yell at me for being an absolute arse, he uses the excuse of needing some air and leaves the flat for a minimum of twenty-four minutes.  That is how long it takes him to walk to the newsagent up the street, purchase a paper, and then make his way back home again.  If I have been a right royal prick, he goes further.  He always takes the left side of the couch when he would rather not sit in his arm chair, and he usually prefers movies with more of a psychological dynamic, but when tired prefers to watch something more action or comedy based so he doesn’t have to think too much about it.  He always starts a new book when he is two chapters away from the end of the one he is currently reading.  Not once has he ever spoken down to me or treated me like a child, no matter how much I act like one, and never once has he belittled me, even when I have made mistakes.  He knows what food I like and he always remembers what to order. He praises me like no one ever has, not even my parents, and he defends me to others who think otherwise.  He stands back and lets me do my work and never takes any of the credit for any of it, even when he has played a crucial role in that work.  He trusts everything I say and do and has not once complained about the way I have tormented and treated him these past three months.

 Two things dawn on me at that moment.

 The first thing is that I don’t just admire John and find him attractive.  I love John H. Watson.

 The second thing is John is not aware of this because he doesn’t think he has a chance with me.  He thinks that I am better than him, and while, yes, at an intellectual level I surpass him tenfold, with everything else John is my equal, sometimes even my better.  Yet he is unaware of all of this.  John saw me at the club last night with tall, blonde, and gorgeous latched onto my neck while I groped his arse.  It never occurred to John that I don’t want that.  That was all for show.  That was to show John what he was missing out.  What I want is short, compact, ruggedly handsome, interesting, and very John-like.  The look of defeat in his eyes last night was because he thought that he had no chance with me, whatsoever.   _Oh, John.  How wrong you are._

 I snap out of my realisation.  “John, I am sorry…”, but John is no longer at the table.  I listen.  There is no noise other than the traffic outside and the sound of the radio from Mrs Hudson’s apartment.  The cup in my hand is stone cold.  I look to the clock on the wall.  Ten twenty five.  John has gone to work.  I quickly get up, leaving my cup on the coffee table, and make my way to my room, throwing on whatever clothes I pull out of the wardrobe.  John won’t be home until close to six.  I have plenty of time to fix this.

 I quickly make my way downstairs and hail a cab.  I force the words “Closest Tesco’s” out of my mouth.  I abhor the place, but it will have everything that I need.  Within thirty five minutes, I have everything, and I am hailing another cab to take me home.  Once I arrive at Baker Street, I practically run upstairs and get to work.

 

~o~

 

By the time John arrives home, the flat is almost sparkling and relatively clutter-free, and it smells divine.  I hear him come up the stairs just as I finish setting the table.

 “What…you cleaned”, John states, taking off his jacket and hanging it up.  “You cooked!” he says, sounding even more surprised, as he walks into the kitchen.

 “Well observed, John.  I am glad to see that a long day at work hasn’t dulled your basic senses”, I murmur as I turn back to the oven to remove the potatoes.  “Tea will be ready in about five minutes if you want to get freshened up beforehand.”

 “Okaaay.” John is clearly not sure about what is going on, but he makes his way to the bathroom anyway.  When he returns, the meal is served, and there is a glass of wine waiting for him.  “So, what’s all this then?” he asks, taking a seat at the table.

 “Coq au vin with Dauphinoise potatoes and steamed beans”, I inform him, taking my own seat at the table.  He goes to open his mouth.  I know that it was not the answer he was looking for.  He wants to know _why_ all of this has been done, but I am not about to get into that just yet.  “Enjoy”, I say before he can ask, and I start on my own meal.  It is good.  I forgot how good I was at cooking.  Apparently, John thinks so too.

 “Jesus, Sherlock.  This is good”, and he takes another bite.  “Really good”, he adds.  After another couple of mouthfuls, John looks up at me.  “I thought your limit was spaghetti bolognaise with the kind of sauce that comes in a jar.” He takes a sip of wine.

 “My Grand-mere liked to cook.  She taught me how.  It is basic chemistry, John”, I tell him.

 “No”, John shakes his head.  “There is nothing basic about this.  It is delicious.  What else are you hiding from me?”  I look down at my plate, willing my cheeks not to heat up.  Not yet.  “I don’t let a lot of people know, and if you tell anyone, know that I will deny it”, I tell him with a lopsided grin.

 John grins back.  “I don’t think anyone would believe that, even if you could cook like this, you would have in the first place.”  I nod in agreement.

 “Good point.” We go back to eating in silence.

 “So, how was work?” I ask, trying to fill that silence.

 “Same as always.  Colds, flu, ingrown toenails, repeat prescriptions, unexpected pregnancies, rashes.  I did have one man, just back from Africa, convinced he has Ebola.”

 “Really?” I do like unusual cases.

 John chuckles and shakes his head.  “I am ninety nine point nine percent sure he most certainly does not have the Ebola virus.  In fact, he seemed perfectly healthy.”  My enthusiasm wanes drastically.  “I did the tests, just to keep him happy.  That, and he refused to leave my office until they were done.”

 We finish the mains, and I gather the plates before John has a chance to stand up.  “That was wonderful, Sherlock.  Thanks”, he says, stretching his arms, a clear sign that he has had a long, tiring day.

 “Not done yet”, I tell him, pulling the next course out of the oven.  Within three minutes, I place two bowls of steaming, chocolaty delectableness on the table, topped with a dollop of cream.  “Molten lava cakes.  It was Grand-mere’s speciality and one of my favourite foods as a child”, I tell him, going to the fridge to retrieve the wine to refill our glasses.  John waits until I am seated before trying out the cake, and I am glad to see the gooey chocolate centre seep out once the cake has been broken open.  It has been many years since I last baked this particular dessert, and it is tricky at the best of times.  Undercook it, and the whole thing just falls apart.  Cook it too much, and you are left with what is essentially a chocolate cake.  Not nearly as impressive.

 “God, this is fantastic”, John practically moans, and I can’t help but puff up, just a bit, at the praise.  I take my own bite of the cake.  It _is_ good.

 “You know”, John says as he finishes of the last of the dessert, “now that I know you can cook food which I am pretty certain would earn three Michelin Stars, I expect it more often, you know.”

 My mouth opens, and I am talking before I have a chance to think about what I am saying.  “You really do like to set yourself up for disappointment, don’t you John.”  Instantly, John’s appearance changes.  Not much, but let’s face it, I am quite a bit more observant than the average person. The smile on John’s face drops, just a bit, his shoulders straighten back minutely, and the sparkle (yes, I am using sparkle as a adjective because there is no other word that I can recall that even comes close) in John’s eyes completely disappears.  It is last night all over again, but worse.  So much worse because this is a direct, personal hit.

 “When it comes to you, yeah, I do.”  I don’t know how, but he keeps the smile on his face and his tone light, like he is agreeing to how ugly the wallpaper is.  Shit.  How did I fuck this up?   _Again!_

 “John, I’m…” I am interrupted by my phone.  I practically growl as I yank it out of my pocket.  “What”, I snap in greeting.  It is Lestrade.  Of course, it is Lestrade.  If there is another man more apt at finding inopportune moments, I hope I never meet him.  I listen to him as he talks, acutely aware of John getting up and leaving the table.  I want to scream at the Detective and his entire incompetent team, but this time he is actually requesting John’s help specifically.  “Yes, fine.  We will be there.  Text the address” I snap and hang up.  I sigh as I stand up.

 “Case?” John asks, settling down on the couch.  Why is he settling down if he knows it is a case and I know he knows?  The question was rhetorical.

 “Yes”, I frown at him, shrugging into my jacket.  “Lestrade will meet us there.”

 This time, it is John’s turn to sigh.  “I have had a really long day, Sherlock.  If you don’t mind, I’d like to….”

 “Well, I do mind, John”, I cut in, agitated.  “You know I work better when you are there, and besides,  Lestrade asked for you specifically.”  John looks up at this as I wrap my scarf around my neck.

 “There is a live victim at the scene”, I tell him as I pull on my gloves.  “He won’t let anyone near him, but is apparently rather badly injured.  He wants you to bring your medical bag.  Something about maybe needing to sedate him.”

 “Why haven’t they called an Ambulance?” John queries, but he does stand up and makes his way towards me where I am holding out his jacket.

 I shrug.  “I don’t know.  Something about people in uniforms, or something like that.  I really wasn’t paying that much attention.  I was more interested in the corpse.”  John rolls his eyes and takes his jacket from me, slipping it on.

 “Give me two minutes.  I’ll just go grab my bag”, and he takes off up the stairs.  I listen as he opens his wardrobe and removes the bag.  I then hear him opening up the drawer next to his bed.  His gun.  He has become quite familiar with how things can go drastically wrong.  I don’t need to remind him anymore to bring it along.  Before his quoted two minutes is up, he is back downstairs, and we are on our way out into the night.

 

~o~

 

“I am dead, I am sure of it”, John groans as he makes his way into the living room and sinks into his chair.  I follow suit.  It is three thirty in the morning.  The murder had been mildly interesting.  A man, Roger Gill, mid-fifties, around thirty pounds overweight, solicitor, tied up with multiple slashes across his arms, legs, and torso.  The cause of death  was a slice across the throat.  It wasn’t a pretty sight, although not the worst I have seen either.  While I took in every small detail around the victim, John - harmless, jumper wearing, friendly John - managed to get close enough to the injured rent boy, and when I say boy, I mean boy.  Barely sixteen, if that.  It seems Mr Gill liked them young.  The boy, Michael apparently, had also been cut up pretty badly.  Upon further inspection, John had concluded that his cuts were not as severe as Roger’s, but were also done with a different instrument.  As John patched up _Michael_ , I found the tool that had done the damage.  It was a small paring knife, washed and put back in the knife block on the kitchen counter, along with the one that had worked on the dead man on the kitchen table.   As it turns out, not only was Roger Gill illegally renting underage boys, but he also liked to rough them up in a rather sadistic way.

 Michael was in no fit state to offer any help.  He claims he was in the bedroom the whole time, too afraid to move.  Lestrade stated that they had found him curled up on the bed after a neighbour had reported strange goings-on in the house.  Michael was sedated and sent to the hospital for further treatment and observation, and I was on my way to talk to the neighbour, Mrs Dolores Nesbit.  Mrs Nesbit, a nosey old woman who I am sure has seen at least two centuries begin, was also of no help.  She heard strange sounds and what sounded like screaming before a black car sped away.  She never liked Mr Gill.  He always seemed shifty.  She never trusted him.  I left before Dolores could fill my head with even more useless information.  Thankfully, the murderer was sloppy.  Shoe prints, fingerprints, soil samples, a glove - all of it left behind.  It only took just over an hour to find out that Mr Gill had gotten a paedophile off of a serious rape and murder charge recently, and the sister of one Jeremy Golding, eight year old victim of said criminal, had been sending Mr Gill hate mail and leaving threatening messages on his answering machine ever since the charges were dropped due to a minor technicality.  Locating her took longer than I thought it would have.  Although her method of murder may have been amateurish, her methods of lying low were thorough; after a few hours of interviewing family and friends, all of whom did their best to deny where she may be, she had been located. As they always do, she gave chase, and when backed into a corner, she fought back.  Hard.  John had ended up knocking her out, as gently as possible, before Lestrade finally arrived.  We were then brought back to the house, because Lestrade wanted me to look around to see if I could find anything that would help determine from whom Gill was renting his boys.  It didn’t take long to find a loose panel in the study wall.  Inside was a laptop.  I did not stay around to find out if the information on it was what they were after, but I am certain that whatever is on that laptop will help them along just fine.   

 “Tea?” John mumbles from behind closed eyes.

 I don’t answer; I just get up and make my way into the kitchen to put the kettle on.  I half expect John to tell me to back away, but there is only silence from the living room.  As I set about preparing the tea, I notice all of the dishes from earlier and the conversation comes back to me.  The conversation where I unintentionally shot John down, again.  I need to fix this.  Tonight.  Now.  Before I go to bed.  John needs to know that it is him that I want, and that if there is anyone not good enough for anyone else, it is me that is not good enough for him.  I make John’s tea, and make my way into the living room to stand in front of John’s chair.  He glances up at me and takes the offered cup.  I don’t move.  He looks up at me again, mid sip.  I am suddenly nervous.  What if I fuck it up yet again?  John raises a tired eyebrow.  “You should get some sleep”, he tells me.  Of course, he is worried about me.  He always worries about me.  Always puts my needs before his.

 “I’m sorry”, I blurt out.  His second eyebrow follows the first.

 “Sorry?” he asks, and I am not sure if he is questioning the fact that I am sorry or if he didn’t catch what I said the first time.

 “Yes, I am sorry”, I tell him again, this time a bit calmer.  John leans back in his chair and rests his mug on his knee.  He has a rather curious look on his face.  “For everything”, I clarify.  “I know you think I don’t notice you.  I do.  What I said earlier.  About disappointing…I don’t…”  I am fucking this up.  Why can’t I just say what I want to say?  How is it that my brain and my mouth are not cooperating?  “You don’t disappoint me, John.  You never have.  You are always…perfect.  Always.” I look down at my hands as the last word comes out as a whisper.  John is very silent.  I don’t know what else to say.  I can’t look at John so I walk away.  I go to my room and close the door.  Silently, in the dark, I strip down to my pants and climb into bed.

  _Perfect_.  That doesn’t even begin to cover it.  Why do I feel like this?  I am very rarely lost for words, and never to that extent.  No one has ever made me feel the way that John Watson does.  Lost.  Confused.  Completely out of my depth.  In the past, I have made it obviously clear when I wanted someone, damn their comfort zone, and I have always pushed until I have gotten what I wanted.  The longest it ever took, once I left my gangly early teens, to get someone I wanted into my bed (or up against the wall, or the back seat of the car, or the botany section at the book store) is exactly twenty seven minutes and three seconds, and I have never had a refusal.  So why was that so hard?  And I don’t think it helped at all.  I lie in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.  I listen as John gets up off of his chair and his footsteps head in the direction of my bedroom.  I hold my breath, waiting, anticipating, but then they stop in the kitchen. where I hear him place his mug on the sink before he makes his way up to his own room.  I slowly release my breath.  I am relieved because I don’t know what I would have said if he had come in here, but I am also bitterly disappointed because I know what I would have liked to have done if he had come in here.  I close my eyes, and, despite the turmoil that is going on in my head, I fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Sherlock plays was inspired by 2 Cello's cover of Hurt by Nine Inch Nails. It really is a lovely, instrumental, cover. You should check it out. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozNEdMcWZvQ


	11. The Seduction of One Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is acting odd and it is leaving Sherlock out of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, big hugs and thanks to leyley09 for picking up the bits that don't make sense and making them make sense!!

~~~~~~~~~~

I wake up just after midday to a quiet flat.  I shuffle out to the kitchen, after pulling on my robe, to find that John has cleaned up from last night.  I further shuffle into the living room and drop down into my chair.  Why is it so quiet?  John doesn’t have a shift today at the clinic, and even if he did, he would have called in sick after last night.  The events of last night come back in full force.  My bumbling excuse for an apology and explanation had left John more confused than before, and at that memory, a cold feeling runs through my chest as a thought occurs to me.  John has left.  Quickly, I vault out of my chair and run up the stairs to John’s room.  I fling the door open to find it…exactly as it always is.  Bed made, with typical hospital corners, shoes neatly next to the wardrobe.  I walk open and fling open the wardrobe door.  All of his clothes hanging as they should be, including garment bags containing John’s army uniforms.  Next is the third drawer of his chest of drawers.  Still full of ugly jumpers.  Finally, I walk over to the cupboard next to the bed and pull the second drawer open.  There sits his gun, where it should be when we are not on a case.  I let out a sigh of relief.  John hasn’t left.  He has just gone out.  I make my way back downstairs, the descent a lot slower than the ascent.  Back in the flat, I busy myself with making a cup of tea and riffle through the biscuit tin.  I find the last macadamia cookie and leave the almost empty container on the table, lid off.  If Mrs Hudson ventures up here later, which she will (she can’t help herself), I am hoping she will get the hint.  More biscuits!

 Once fed, I shower, dress, and make my way out to the living room.  John is still not back, but Mrs Hudson has been by; the biscuit tin is missing, and the remaining biscuits are on a plate on the middle of the table.  I expect that it will be returned, full, by the end of the afternoon.  I pluck a shortbread from the plate and go sit in my armchair.  Do I text John and find out where he is?  Maybe he needs space.  I slowly nibble at the biscuit. Maybe he got called in for a late shift at the clinic.  No.  He leaves a note when that happens.  I pick up my phone, trying to think of an appropriate message when the front door opens and John’s familiar tread makes its way up the stairs.  He is carrying something.  He enters as I am shoving the rest of the biscuit into my mouth.

 “Afternoon”, he says cheerily.  “I have a present for you”, he announces, holding up the paper bag in his hand.

 I stand up, trying not to appear too excited.  John never has presents for me.  I swallow the biscuit and make my way over to the kitchen table where John has placed the bag before making his way to the kettle.  I remove the contents of the brown bag to find a clear plastic bag containing a stomach.  I look to John, who has his back to me making tea, with a smile on my face, which I am sure would be described as the look a child would have on Christmas Day.

 “I went to the hospital to check on Michael.  He is doing better.  Social services is working with him to get him into a more stable environment.  While I was there, I ran into Molly.  She said she had something for you, and I was eventually given that”, he informs me, pointing over his shoulder in the general direction of his gift.  “Apparently, it is riddled with ulcers.  She thought you’d have a field day with it.”

 “Oh, I will”, I tell him, opening up the plastic bag to get a better look.  The things I can do with this.  John places a cup of tea on the table in front of me and takes his own cup to his chair.  I follow his movements with my eyes.  He seems…fine.  Normal.  Like nothing has happened.  I put my stomach down on the table.  Did last night have _no_ impact on him?  I thought he would be feeling a bit confused or awkward or I don’t know really.  Maybe he has just chalked it up to us both being over tired.  I decide to leave it for a while.  After all, the last time I tried to fix it, it all went to hell.  I decide that a distraction is the best thing to take my mind away from this problem, and I will be able to re-address it at a later time with a hopefully refreshed outlook on the whole situation.  And I have a marvellously wonderful distraction right in front of me, courtesy of John.  I dig through the top kitchen cupboards and pull out all of my equipment and immerse myself in playing with my ulcerated stomach.

 

~o~

 

It has been several hours since I set about playing with the organ that John gave me.  I have cut at it, heated parts, frozen parts, boiled parts, poured various solutions and powders on parts of it, and soaked it in an array of different chemicals.  I have dissected the ulcers - and there were many (the last days of this person’s life were not comfortable ones) - and tested their acidity levels and the reactions to a number of other tests.  It has been an interesting and fulfilling afternoon.  When I finally decide that I have learnt all that I can from the stomach, I throw away the disgusting parts and push the rest to one end of the table.  While I was busy, John has made a trip to the shop and restocked our fridge.  Mrs Hudson has revisited with a tin full of freshly baked biscuits, and now I can hear the shower running.  I walk to the window and look down at the people scurrying away on the pavement below.  I reach over and pick up my violin.  A simple Beethoven piece is brought to life.  It is fast, it is sweet, and it is light.  It is not boredom. It is not frustration.  It is not thinking.   My fingers fly over the strings, making each stroke of the bow sing its own sweet tune, coming together to form one beautiful symphony.  I close my eyes and sway.  The only senses I need are touch and sound.  I play the music and leave the world behind.  If exhaustion and basic bodily needs didn’t take over, I could stay like this forever,  the notes bringing me life.  A reason to continue, knowing each one will be just as beautiful as the next one, if not more so.  Music makes sense.  Music doesn’t confuse me, or judge me, or hate me.  It makes the ugliness in this world go away.  It brings peace and tranquillity.  It calms thoughts and helps to put them in order.  It settles me, even if only temporarily.  It is one of the joys in my life that has never let me down. The other is John.   I end the piece with extra flourish and lower my bow.  Again, I am startled when John speaks.  I was unaware that he was standing there, watching me as I played the short piece.

 “You could make Nicki Minaj music sound good on that thing”, he comments.

 “I can assure you that I have no idea what a Nicki Minaj is”, I state as I turn around.  If I had anything else to add to the sentence, it has packed up and vacated my vocabulary because I am coming up with nothing, except _skin_.

 I try not to ogle John, but I am not too sure that I am succeeding.  John is standing in the entrance to the kitchen in pyjama bottoms, towelling his hair dry.  “I can’t imagine that you would”, John says, still towelling his hair.  Not once has he looked up at me.  “Pop star, well, I say star…she’s famous”, he continues as he walks past me, out and up to the stairs that will take him to his room.  I stare at him the whole way, admiring the tanned skin over muscle which is just starting to soften but is still so, so, appealing.  His hideous green pyjamas are slung low on his hips.  The way they hug his backside so well make up for the awful colour.  I am still staring at the door when I hear John make his way back downstairs.  I quickly pull my mouth shut and turn to place my violin in its case.  This is not a regular occurrence but I need something to occupy my hands.

 “Chinese?” he asks as he walks into the living room.  I don’t want to look up at him, so I open my mouth to say yes, and I suddenly notice that my mouth is dryer than the Simpson Desert.  “Sure”, I force out, my voice sounding unusually hoarse.  I make my way to the kitchen to get a glass of water, noticing John for the first time since he left the living room.  I am disappointed to see that he has put on a tee-shirt.  One part of my brain is relieved at this fact.  The other half is horribly depressed.

 “You okay?” he asks, sounding a bit worried.  “You sound like you are coming down with something.”  I chug back a glass of water and am happy to find that my voice comes out normally when I reply.

 “Fine, John.  Chinese sounds great.  Do you want me to order?” I fish my phone out of my pocket before he gets a chance to answer.

 Half an hour, later we are sitting on the couch devouring broccoli free stir-fry, egg rolls, steamed dim sums, beef and black bean with noodles, and spring rolls, watching a movie about a cop who is investigating a disappearance from a hospital for the criminally insane.  I have already figured out that the cop is, in fact, an inmate at the facility, but tonight I decide not to ruin it for John.  He seems to be really enjoying the film.

 I carefully observe John out of the corner of my eye.  I cannot be a hundred percent certain (and I will deny that if anyone questions it), but I think he has moved closer to me.  I am not sure how he has managed this, as he is sitting up with his feet on the coffee table, so moving subtly is out of the question.  But there seems to be less space between us, and it isn’t me who has moved; I am still leaning on the arm of the sofa, also with my feet propped on the coffee table.

 Eventually, the movie ends, and John stands up with a yawn.  He picks up the remains of dinner and sorts them into leftovers and rubbish, placing them in the fridge or the bin.  He then goes into the bathroom.  I listen as he uses the toilet and brushes his teeth (not at the same time) before making his way back out to the kitchen, where I have migrated to put the kettle on. John hasn’t had a cup of tea since before dinner, but as is often true with John, I am about to be surprised.

 “Well, that’s me for the evening”, John announces, yawning again.  “I am knackered.  I will see you in the morning”, he says and walks past, reaching up and gently ruffling my hair as he passes.

 “Night”, I quietly respond, but it is too late.  He is gone, but I can still feel his fingers, gently caressing my curls.  What in the hell was that all about?  I stand staring at the door for I don’t know how long, trying to understand what just happened.  I come up with nothing, so I go to bed.

 After two nights of no dreams about John and no inconvenient erections, I am suddenly plagued with both again, all because he ran his fingers through my hair.

 Conclusion:  I have no fucking idea.

 

~o~

 

When I wake the following morning, I can hear John moving around in the kitchen.  I roll over to bury my face in my pillow and groan.  I am painfully hard, again, and after the dream I had, it is not going to go away on its own.  Quietly, I get out of bed and make my way to the bathroom, thankful for the door that connects my room to the bathroom, where I run a cold shower.  I contain my gasp as I step under the spray and wait while the cold water does its work.  And I wait.  It is not working.  I reach out and turn off what little hot water I did have on, and I almost shriek as the water goes from cold to icy.  This is torture in its most pure form.  I have to re-evaluate my plan in regards to John.  Original attempts were working, but they weren’t enough.  Then I went too far, and it was too much.  There needs to be a happy medium somewhere; I just need to figure out what it is.  Then there is the question of John’s odd behaviour the last twenty four hours.  I refuse to remember the way his hand felt ruffling my hair, as the _ice_ cold water has finally done its job and I do not want to have to stand here and suffer any longer.  With that thought, I shut the water off and step out of the shower.  It is cold.  I am shivering to the point where my teeth are chattering, so I dry off as quickly as possible and pull on some clothes.

 When I make my way out to the kitchen, John is at the table reading the paper with a cup of tea in front of him.  And a banana in his hand.

 “Morning”, John greets me, not looking up from the paper.  “Tea’s on the counter”, and he takes a bite of the fruit in his hand without taking his eyes from the article he is reading.  It is not a deep bite, imbibing sexual undertones such as the one I had performed at the beginning of this game, but a small, normal-sized bite, but damned if I can drag my eyes away from the movement until he has chewed and swallowed the food in his mouth.  With a quick shake of my head to snap me out of whatever fantasy was trying to form, I make my way over to the kitchen counter where John has prepared a cup of tea for me.  I pick up the hot mug and quickly make my way back to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me, probably with a bit more force than necessary.  I have to get myself under control.  Today is about figuring John out, not turning into a lust ridden mess every time he carries out some innocent action.  Not even twenty minutes later, there is a knock on my door.

 “I am just heading out, Sherlock.  Is there anything you want me to get while I am out?”  comes John’s voice from the other side of the door.  This would be a good chance to observe John in an attempt find out what the hell is going on.  I quickly stand up and make my way to the door, pulling it open to a rather calm looking John.

 “Sounds like a marvellous idea, John.  Where are we headed?” I walk past him to the living room, grabbing my coat, pulling it on, and wrapping my scarf around my neck.  If I expect John to be confused at my sudden interest in following him around, then I am proven incorrect and surprised.  With a small smile on his face that implies that he knows something that I don’t, he checks his pocket for his wallet, keys, and phone.

 “Just running down to the clinic.  I forgot to finish some paper work the other day that really should be completed, and then just a quick run through Tesco’s”, and he heads out of the flat, downstairs.

 Curious, I follow John, and am impressed when he manages to hail a cab on his first try.  I slide in after him, and we travel to his place of work in silence.  He contentedly looks out the window as we drive along.  I study him, without trying to hide it.  Something is not quite right.  It is not bad, but it is not right; I don’t know what it is, and it is bothering me.  Fifteen minutes later, we have pulled up in front of the clinic at which John works, and John is climbing out of the cab, handing the cabbie some change as he does.  I follow him out of the taxi and into the building.  It is a mind-numbingly boring shade of eggshell, from the carpets up through its walls.  There are several posters advertising things such as flu shots and the need for regular pap smears.  There are four people in the waiting room.  One heavily pregnant woman with a screaming child attached to her leg (I hope this won’t take long), an elderly man who is sitting rather gingerly (haemorrhoids), a middle-aged man absently scratching behind his neck (skin irritation.  Has possibly started using a new laundry detergent), and an elderly lady who is looking from poster to poster and then to the rack of pamphlets on different treatments for different maladies (hypochondriac, hasn’t yet decided what will be wrong with her when it is her time to actually see the doctor).  My attention is immediately drawn away from the waiting room by the girlish voice of the woman behind the desk.

 “Back on your day off.  Can’t get enough of us, Doctor Watson? ” she smiles at him.  Late twenties, no children, smoker, coffee addict.  Rather plain looking, makes up for it by wearing a good bra and low cut tops.  Has two, no, three love bites on her neck which have been expertly covered up with concealer.  Suffering from a slight hang over, that evidence also expertly covered over with make-up.

 “Well, with someone like you behind the desk, Jane, it is difficult _not_ to come in on my days off”, John fires back, smoothly, with a grin of his own.  Is he _flirting_?  Jane’s smile widens into a grin, and I find myself glaring at her.  John is not hers.  John will never be hers.  She pays me no attention.

 “Full time hours, whenever you want them, Doctor, then you can see me any day you like.”  Jane leans over, just a bit more, giving John a semi-decent view of what is down her top.  Being taller than John, I unfortunately get a full view.  I suppress my sigh, but the eye roll is involuntary.  It stops half way, though, at John’s next words.

 “Don’t tempt me Jane.  I may just take you up on the offer”, and he winks at her before turning to me.  “Shouldn’t be long.  You can wait over there”, he gestures towards the eggshell waiting room, “if you want.”  Just then the small child that seems to have become a permanent extension of its mother’s leg starts screaming louder.  I don’t hide the wince.

 “I’d rather not”, and I move past John towards his consulting room.  I know where it is.  Of course I know where it is.  I know almost everything about John, and what I don’t know I plan to find out.  That, and there is a sign on the door that reads _Dr. J. Watson_.

 John unlocks the door, and I follow him in, taking the chair usually reserved for patients. John sits at his desk and rifles through a stack of papers, pulling out the ones he needs, and starts filling out blank boxes and signing various forms.  I look around the room.  It is the same depressing colour as the entrance room.  The desk houses a basic PC, printer, jar of pens, tourniquet, stethoscope, tongue depressors, latex gloves, pen torch, thermometer plus disposable covers, an otoscope, and a half full jar of colourful lollipops.  I try not to grin at the last item.  The bookshelf to the right of the desk is full of a selection of medical journals and a model of the heart, the kind that can be pulled apart to show the inside dimensions.  There is an examination table in the back corner, set up with paper over the surface and an instrument table in between that and a small sink.  Towels and gowns are folded up neatly on the shelf at the end of the table.  The stirrups on the table are folded down, and the curtain has been pulled to the side and tied open.  I wonder if John would give me a full examination if I asked.  I feel a stirring where I really shouldn’t have one and decide that I will explore the possibility of having a medical kink when I don’t have an non-participating audience.  Feeling rather bored, I stand up and wander over to the cabinet in the opposite corner.  I am reaching out to open it when John speaks.

 “It’s locked” is all he says, without even looking up from where he is working.  I am probably imagining it, but to me, that sounded like a challenge.  Within two minutes, I have the lock picked and the doors opened.

 “That wasn’t a challenge”, John says from behind me. I imagined it. I turn to see that he has stopped what he was doing to look at me, but there is a smile on his face.  I shrug, and John shakes his head fondly and goes back to work.  I shut the cupboard and relock it, making my way back to the chair.

 ‘So”, I say, trying to sound casual as I flop down into the seat, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, “Jane?”  I try and say her name flatly, but it comes out with a small sneer.

 John gently bites his bottom lip, almost as if he is trying not to smile, then continues signing off on some forms.  “Sleeps with every single, male doctor that is hired here, sometimes even some of the married ones.  Not really my type.”  I instantly feel my muscles start to relax as we slip back into silence.  I pick a tongue depressor out of the tray and fiddle around with it, spinning it through my fingers before I test out its flexibility, inevitably snapping it in two.  I hear John swallow the sigh that threatens to slip past his lips.  “I won’t be too much longer”, he tells me.  I gently place the two pieces of wood on the desk and look around again.  I reach over and pick up the otoscope.  I hold it up, studying it, peering through the lens.  I push the button, turning on the little light.  I do this three more times before John’s hand reaches out and stills over mine around the instrument.  My breath hitches, just slightly, at the touch.  “You could go for a walk.  There is a park not far from here.  It has ducks and pick pockets.  Or there is a café across the road.  I am pretty sure the girl has been pilfering from the till.  I will message you when I am finished, yeah?”  He is still looking down at his paperwork.  I loosen my grip on the otoscope, and he takes it out of my hand, returning it back to its proper place.

 “Sorry”, I mumble, but I don’t leave.  Again, we sit in silence.  Ten more minutes, and John shuffles the papers together and stands up.  He reaches for the jar of lollipops and takes one out.  “Lollipop?” he asks, holding the jar out to me.  I can’t help but grin.  “But I wasn’t a good patient, Doctor Watson.”

 John shrugs, with a grin of his own.  “I’ve had worse.  At least you didn’t bite me.”   _Yet_ I think and return my attention back to the jar before me as that is a much safer thought.  I shake my head at the offering and stand up as John puts the jar back on the desk.  He picks up his papers, and we make our way back out to the waiting room.  Thankfully, the screaming child is absent, but two more people have joined the subdued group.  I pay them no attention and focus on John’s interaction with the slutty receptionist in front of me.  He slides the paper work over the counter to Jane with instructions to fax them off to a near-by pharmacy.  Jane twirls a lock of hair around her finger as she listens to every word he says, nodding to indicate that she understood.

 “Right then”, John says, unwrapping the lollipop he pilfered from the jar in his room. “That was all.  I will see you next week”, and, popping the yellow candy in his mouth, he heads towards the door.

 “I look forward to it, Doctor”, Jane replies with a smile that I am sure any of the other men at the clinic would find seductive. As John walks past her with a small wave, I grin smugly back at her, knowing she will never have a chance with John.  She glares at me, and I follow John outside, feeling in a rather good mood.

 The good mood doesn’t last, as once we get in the cab we sit in silence again as John sucks on his lollipop, rolling it around in his mouth.  Every now and then, it pushes against his cheek, making a little bulge in the smooth surface.  On occasion, he pulls it out and licks the sugary coating off of his lips before putting it back in his mouth and starting the whole cycle over again.  Every time I manage to pull my gaze away to look out the window, I find that in less than a minute I am looking back at John, who doesn’t seem at all bothered that I am watching him.  Finally, we reach the shop, and John crunches the remainder of the lollipop between his teeth and pockets the stick.  The shopping experience is rather uneventful.  Toothpaste, bread, tea, fabric softener, and of course milk.  Neither of us can decide what we want for dinner, so we decide that take away would be the best option rather than wandering up and down the aisles deciding on something.  John goes to the checkout, flat out refusing to use the chip and pin machines.  He is convinced that they are programed to somehow recognise him and become faulty, beeping and detailing all of his errors quite loudly, every time he uses one.  I can’t help but chuckle when he suggests that Mycroft is probably behind it.

 We are barely home when my phone goes off.  It is Lestrade, with a case.  We meet him down at the London Aquarium.  We arrive just as the body is being pulled out of the penguin pool; needless to say, the _Ice Adventure_ is not open for tourists today.  The victim, who is a rather interesting shade of blue, is male, late thirties, average height and weight - hard to gauge accurately while he is wearing the sopping wet snow suit, black hair shaved close to his scalp.  He reminds me of an Eskimo in bright blue (it matches his lips) nylon.  I look around the enclosure and restrain myself from yelling at everyone here.  Not only are there penguin tracks everywhere, but there are also tracks from the earlier tourists and from the police called onto the scene.  I make my way over to the body, indicating for John to follow and crouch down to get a better look.  There appear to be no injuries on the body.  No sign of a struggle.  Not even any damage to his polyester yeti outfit.

 “Raymond Snow”, Lestrade informs us, and I cringe internally at the horrible titles that John could use for his blogged account of the case.

 “Judging by the temperature and the fact that he probably spent quite a bit of time in the water, I would put time of death sometime in the early hours of this morning”, John thinks aloud, picking up a hand, pulling the glove off.  “Maybe three – four o’clock.”  He runs his hands over the body’s head and stops, briefly.  "There is a slight lump, nothing substantial enough to kill.”

 “No witnesses”, I say to Lestrade. It is not a question.

 “No one saw a thing until about an hour ago.  A visitor noted something that didn’t look right at the bottom of the pool.  She got a worker in, in case someone had thrown rubbish into the water.  Didn’t want the penguins getting hurt.”

 “How did someone not notice a person at the bottom of the penguin tank until an hour ago?” I ask incredulously.  “The aquarium opens at what, ten o’clock?  It is now past midday.”

 Lestrade shrugs.  “His snowsuit matched the bottom of the tank almost perfectly.  We think the hood floated back and that was when there was a colour change in the bottom of the pool”, the DI offers.  Unbelievable.  People are so blind.  These penguins are probably more observant and intelligent.

 “What about video footage?  Surely, there must be some of that somewhere”, I snap, once again, doing their job for them.

 “It had been disabled”, Lestrade informs me.  “Is there not an underground viewing room for the pool?” I call over my shoulder.

 “It is has been blocked off for the past twenty-four hours.  Something about resurfacing the floors.  No one was down there.” Lestrade is rubbing his hands together to keep the blood flow going.

 “Shouldn’t there have been someone down there resurfacing the floors?” I ask with a small sigh.  Without a word, Lestrade points back to the victim.  “Did he have access to the property outside of operating hours?” I ask the DI, paying attention to a mark on the edge of the pool.

 “Security lets him in at eight thirty in the morning.  He is usually finished by the time the centre closes for the day at seven o’clock.”

 “Question the security guard who was on last night.  He helped him.” I tell Lestrade, straightening up and tugging my scarf, pulling it tighter.  John, who has finished inspecting the body, comes over to stand with us.

 “What?” Lestrade says. “The security guard killed him?”

 I bite back the groan of frustration.  “No.  The security guard did not kill him, but when he did his rounds before the closing of the centre last night, he purposely ignored the fact that Mister Snow was still hanging about downstairs.”

 “Not working late, I’m guessing”, Lestrade states.  I bite back any retort that has to do with his ample skill in _guessing_.

 “No, not working.  The ridiculous snowsuit was because he was staying here for a long period of time, hoping to use the cover of the dark to hide any involvement.  I am sure if you look around, you will find a small cage or box somewhere close by, where it shouldn’t be.  Mr Snow, and possibly whatever moronic oaf was on guard last night, were planning on stealing a penguin.  My guess is he had to wait until someone could pick him and the bird up, hence the accident happening so long after the centre shut.  When it was near pick up time, he went to retrieve one of the birds.  I assume he tripped on one in the dark, because someone stupid enough to try to steal a penguin isn’t clever enough to use a flashlight, and fell into the pool, hitting his head on the way down.  I daresay he drowned before he froze to death in the water which is temperature controlled to suit birds of the arctic, not morons of suburban London.  I am sure, when you question the guard, he will talk you through it step by idiotic step.”  With that, I stand up and turn to leave.  “John!” I call and head towards the exit, but John isn’t following.  I turn back to where John was to find him still standing there, talking to Lestrade.  I see John chuckle at something the detective says.  I glare at Lestrade, an unfamiliar wave of jealousy rolling through my stomach, and I stalk back towards them just as he is finishing a sentence.

 “…o’clock, normal place, yeah?”

 John nods with a smile.  “I’ll be there”, he confirms, only then turning towards me.

 “Quite finished?” I snark at John.  He just grins up at me.

 “I am now.  Let’s go”, and he walks off, leading the way.  Trying not to let the shock at John’s behaviour show (because, to be honest, the shock on Lestrade’s face is enough for both of us), I turn and follow the doctor out of the penguin enclosure. Once we get outside, John hails a cab, snagging the second one that drives by.  We slide in, and John directs the cabbie to Baker Street.  We travel in silence.  As unexpected as John’s sudden display of control is, it is also surprisingly arousing.  I think I might just like it when he takes charge.  I might need to find more opportunities for Captain Watson to make an appearance.  Not too often.  I am certainly not handing over all control to the small army doctor, but just enough to keep things interesting.  But why is he suddenly acting this way?  I look out the window, watching the city scenery flash past, and let my thoughts whirl around in my head.  As we pull up to the flat, John gets out of the cab, leaving me to pay; that is when it hits me.  John is asserting control.  He is proving that he is not beneath me.  He is proving his worth as a man of action, as a captain in the British Armed Forces, as a force to be reckoned with.  Not as the small, unintimidating, jumper-wearing doctor with a comforting bedside manner.

 I pay the cabbie and make my way inside, slowly following the doctor up the stairs.  “So”, I say, taking off my coat and scarf, hanging them up in their usual spot, “Making plans with Gavin.”

 “Greg”, John corrects me, filling up the kettle. “And yes, we are heading out to the pub tonight.”  John sets about making two cups of tea while I try not to snarl at the thought of Lestrade spending time alone with John.   This sudden possessive feeling towards John is somewhat unexpected, and I try to push it away.  John will not appreciate it at all.  I stalk over to my chair and drop down, not half as graceful as I usually am.

 “But it’s not Friday or Saturday”, I tell him.  Why is John breaking away from the norm?  He only ever goes to the pub on a Friday or a Saturday.

 “Yep, I learned the days of the week in kindergarten, thanks”, John tells me as he takes a sip of his tea.  There is a smile in his eyes, but he is not allowing it to reach his lips.  Why?  John carries the cups of tea into the living room and hands me mine before sitting in his own chair.  “And funnily enough, the pubs are open every day of the week.”

 “But you only ever go out on a Friday or a Saturday”, I tell him, trying not to sound like I am whining, although I am sure he is quite aware of his own social habits.

 “Well, this week I am going out on a Thursday”, he informs me simply.

 I can’t stop the frown from forming.  ‘Why?” I ask.

 John seems unfazed by my uncalled for bad mood.  “Because Greg asked if I was busy tonight.  I wasn’t, so he suggested we grab a pint or two tonight.  He is heading out of town tomorrow.”

 My frown doesn’t lessen, but I don’t question John anymore.  Instead, I drink my tea in silence, and then, leaving my mug on the floor next to my chair because I know it annoys John, I stand up and go to my room.

 This is ridiculous.  John is entitled to go out with his friends.  He always goes out with Gilbert, and it has never bothered me before, apart from the fact that it leaves me home alone to be bored rather than home with John to be bored.  Maybe I could join them.  No.  That would be odd.  John would sense something was up.  For the first time ever, I start hoping that I was wrong about the case and that Lestrade will call me to say that the guard says it was murder.  That plan is squashed at almost the exact same time I think it, as my phone beeps out its message alert.  I open the message and read it.

  **You were right.  The security guard confirmed everything.  He folded like a cheap suit before we even got the first question out.**

 I groan.  There goes that idea.  I message him back.

  **Any other cases?  Preferably ones that actually require me to think in order to solve?  SH**

 The returned message doesn’t improve my mood.

  **No such luck.  Besides I am looking forward to a quiet night at the pub with John tonight.  Don’t jinx me.**

 I throw my phone across the room.  It doesn’t make me feel any better.  I lay back on my bed and think this through.  This is entirely irrational.  John and I  are not a thing, _yet_.  We had no plans for tonight which he is breaking.  He is in no way attracted to Graham sexually, nor is Graham attracted to John.  He is not purposely excluding me.  To be honest, if I asked to go John would not stop me, even if he did think it was unusual and a little bit suspicious. He is not doing anything unusual.  There are no women involved for John to fall back into old habits.  (The thought that he hasn’t had a date in seven weeks and two days makes me smile.)  I can even conclude that they are going to the Elephant  & Wheelbarrow.  It is where they usually meet.  There is no reason for me to feel this way.  I take a deep breath to try to reign these stupid emotions in and get up off of my bed, retrieve my phone, and make my way back out to the living room.  John is still in his chair doing the crossword puzzle from this morning’s paper.

 “Two across, perpetual”, I tell him as I stride past towards my violin.   “Thanks”, he mutters and writes the word down in its allotted slot as I pick up my instrument and fiddle around with the strings, adjusting the tuning knobs.  I sit in my chair and hold my violin vertical on my lap, the strings facing out and start pitzing out a basic tune between my thumb and forefinger.

 “Why would someone want a penguin?” I ask, throwing my thoughts back to the case.

 John shrugs.  “Why would anyone want to put their dog in a tutu?”

 Good point.  “I just don’t understand.  What did he think he was going to do with it once he got it home?  I doubt that he has a habitable enclosure for it.  Did he think it was going to adapt to London temperatures, especially since he, Raymond, would have needed heating in order to survive our wonderful winters?”

 John calmly places the paper on his lap.  “I honestly don’t know, Sherlock.  My guess is that he really didn’t think it through, like most of the criminal class.”

 I sigh.  John is probably right.  The stupidity of people is always disappointing.  I pluck out a few notes on the violin.

 “Why is this case bothering you so much?” John asks, pulling me out of my own thoughts.  I shrug and continue to pluck at the strings, not wanting John to know that it is not the case that is bothering me.  After a while, John speaks again.

 “Is that chopsticks?” he asks with a grin.

 “It is”, I reply.  I know I shouldn’t be surprised that John knows the simple childish tune, but I am, and it makes me happy.

 “I thought that was only played on the piano”, he confesses.

 “It is a tune, John.  It can be played on anything.  But, yes, it is normally reserved for the piano”, I explain simply.

 “By beginners”, John adds.

 “Yes”, I answer.  “Sometimes, it is soothing to go back to the basics.”  Apparently, John has no more to say and goes back to his crossword, the end of the pen held lightly between his teeth.

 “Twelve down, automotive”, I tell him.  He grins and fills in the answer to the clue.

 “Do you memorise these every morning?” he asks.  I just let a small smile tug at my lips as I continue to pluck out another childish tune.  I don’t answer the question.  I read half a dozen clues as I walked past before.  John doesn’t need to know that I don’t know all of the answers.

 The rest of the afternoon is spent in much the same way.  Mrs Hudson brings up a chicken casserole that she conveniently cooked too much of, so dinner is sorted.  John showers and gets changed, and then makes his way to the Elephant to meet Garrison, leaving me here, all by myself.

 

~o~

 

It has been forty-three minutes since he left, and I am already envisioning some two-bit hussy rubbing her breasts up against him.  The image has been plaguing me for nearly twenty minutes, and while I try and distract myself with the cane toad poison glands, I find that I cannot fully concentrate on the task, even though these samples were not easy to come by.  Without thinking about it, I take my phone out and send a text to John.

  **What are the immediate effects of cane toad poisoning on a fully grown male?  And how long do the symptoms take to present?  SH**

 It seems like a millennia, but seven minutes later (his texting skills still haven’t improved), John’s reply comes through.

  **I can honestly say that I do not know the answer to that due to the fact that cane toads are not a problem in England.  Please tell me you haven’t poisoned yourself.**

 John’s reply gives me pause for thought.  If I tell him that I think I have, he will come home to tend to me.  My thumb hovers over the screen of my phone to tap out the affirmative when I decide not to.

  **No.  Just curious.  SH**

 There is no further reply from John.  I pack up the toad glands and put them back in the fridge, deciding it is an experiment better left for a day when I can concentrate more.  Almost an hour later, I am pacing the floor in the living room so much that Mrs Hudson has come up to see if everything is alright.  I snap at her that I am fine and to go back to whatever mindless show she is watching.

 “Don’t you take that tone with me, young man”, she snaps back at me, pulling herself to her full height (which really isn’t that tall), and pointing her finger at me.  “If you want to be in a right tiff, that’s fine, but sit down and do it.  I have been listening to you stomp back and forth in the same spot for the past half hour.” And with that, she is back off down the stairs faster than someone with _a hip_ ought to be able to move.  But I do stop pacing and send John another message.

  **Did you move my bowel?  SH**

 I am starting to think that John isn’t going to answer when my phone pings.

  **Although I am a Doctor and am capable of making that happen I would advise trying more fibre in your diet first.**

 I frown at the answer.  How much has John had to drink?  I re-read his answer and then re-read my question.   _Oh_.  He was making a joke.

  **Don’t be obtuse, John.  I was talking about the one I had in the fridge.  It is nowhere to be found  SH**

There never was any bowel in the fridge; I just want to make sure John is still in a position where he can freely text me, and it was the first thing that popped into my head.  John’s reply was the standard three minutes.  Must be a short answer.

  **Haven’t seen it sorry.  Maybe Mrs H threw it out.**

  **Probably.  We must define what ‘not our housekeeper’ means to her one day  SH**

 I sit and wait for John’s reply, thinking back to the conversation we had when I was in Ivybridge, but there is nothing.  Half an hour later, I text John again.

  **Bored  SH**

 There is no answer.  So I text again.

  **Really Bored  SH**

 Still no answer, so I text John and Lestrade at the same time.

  **What is the standard response time for a patrol car to arrive when shots are fired in the middle of London these days?  SH**

 Lestrade’s text arrives first.  He is obviously more competent with a phone than John is.

  **Whatever you are planning, Sherlock, don’t do it.**

 A minute later, John’s text comes through.

  **PUT MY BLOODY GUN AWAY**

 I send them both another message.

  **Calm down.  John, I don’t have your gun. Lestrade I am NOT planning anything.  It was just a question.  SH**

 Again, there is no answer, but it would have unsettled them both enough to want to finish their pints and get John home, just in case I was lying.  I am right.  Half an hour later, John is entering the building and making his way up the stairs.  I sit down in my chair and wait for him to enter, expecting a long and loud lecture about annoying him while he is out, but he walks into the living room, removes his coat, and makes his way over to the kettle.  “I’d ask how your evening was, but judging by the text messages I received tonight, I am going to go with ‘ _Boring_ ’.  Tea?” He asks.  He doesn’t sound irritable or tired.  I watch his movements.  They are as smooth as normal.  There is no misjudging or sluggishness.

 “You didn’t have a drink tonight”, I state as John makes us both a cup of tea, even though I didn’t agree to have one.

 “Not of beer, no”, he confirms.

 “But you went to the pub”, I clarify, confused.  John always drinks beer.  Not any one type because he likes a variety, but he always drinks beer.  Unless he is having whisky, but that is very rarely.

 “Yes, and they also serve water and orange juice”, he informs me whilst getting the milk out of the fridge.  John finishes making the tea, returning the milk to the left side of the fridge, and carries both cups into the living room, handing me mine and sitting down with his own.  For a while, we sit in silence.  My mind is no longer agitated, seeing John across from me, clearly not drunk and not reeking of cheap perfume.

 I watch as John drinks his tea.  “So, how is G….”

“Greg”, John cuts in.

 “That is what I was going to say”, I point out.

 “No, you weren’t.  You were going to say Graham, or Gavin, or Gus, or some other G name, and he is still fine.  Not much has changed since this afternoon.”

 He takes another sip of his tea.  “So, is he going away anywhere interesting?” I am sure that I will find no holiday destination of _Greg’s_ interesting.  I am just filling the silence that somehow seems a bit too tense.

 “Not really.  Just over to Cardiff with the wife for a couple of days.  Trying to get their marriage sorted.”

 I snort.  “Good luck with that.  She will be texting the dog trainer every chance she gets.”

 John winces, but he knows it is true.  Mrs Lestrade (knew her name.  Deleted it) couldn’t stay monogamous if it was just her and one other person left in the world.

 We sit in silence again, and I can’t stand it.  John, however, seems quite comfortable.  He still has that small smile that whispers of things he knows that I don’t.  I finish my tea in two large gulps and stand up.  “I’m going to bed”, I announce and take my cup into the kitchen, dropping it into the sink, not caring if it breaks or not.  The tight feeling in my stomach, which has been there since we returned from the aquarium today, has reached its stretching point, and it is about to snap.  I don’t want to be around John when it does because I don’t know what I will do when it finally happens.  I turn around to go to my room to find John practically right behind me.  When in the hell did he learn to move so quietly?  He reaches around me and places his mug on the sink quietly, then he looks up at me, still with that little smile.

 “Good night, Sherlock.” His voice is just above a whisper, his hand back in my hair, then he reaches up and gently places his lips on mine.  My breath freezes in my lungs, and my heart stutters to a halt; before I realise that he has stopped, he has turned around and is making his way out of the kitchen towards his room.  Before my brain comes back online, he is gone, and I hear his bedroom door shut.

 What. The. Fuck. Just. Happened?

 My brain instantly kicks into action and rehashes over the past forty-eight hours.  My bumbling apology, the present from the morgue.  He said it was from Molly, but John never voluntarily brings body parts into the flat for me.  Then there was him walking through the flat with no shirt after his shower yesterday, and I still believe that he was somehow moving closer to me while we were sitting on the couch, not to mention him ruffling my hair.  John has no aversion to touching people unnecessarily, but he is never that friendly.  Then this morning with the damned banana.  That was no coincidence.  He waited until I was up and leaving my room before he decided to eat that, and that smile on his face when I joined him on his little errand run.  He knew I would follow.  The flirting with Jane, that must have all been an act.  John isn’t the type to lead women on when they don’t have a chance, but today he made an exception.  And the cursed lollipop.  No one should get hard over watching someone consume confectionary, but then again, no one should take close to fifteen minutes to consume one lolly!  Tonight was all a ploy as well.  Going out with Lestrade, ignoring a majority of my texts, and the whole taking control thing.  And then the kiss.  The kiss that was light and chaste and very much surprising.   As the thoughts slot into place in my mind, a bigger picture forms and everything clicks together.

 Conclusion:  John Watson has been seducing me.

 And he has been using my very own methods, and I didn’t see it happening.  The manipulating bastard.  I look up to the ceiling.  There lies John Watson.  The man who limped into my life and set free emotions which have spent a third of my life locked away.  John Watson, who has left me wanting and frustrated for the past three months, one week, and one day.  John Watson, who has been too scared to finally cross that line until ten minutes ago.  And now he is up in his room, and I am down here analysing the whole situation.  What was I supposed to do?  He kissed me and walked away.  Granted, I didn’t kiss him back.  For once, I had been shocked into inaction.  But he had walked away.  It wasn’t a defeated walk.  He hadn’t been disheartened by my lack of response.  No.  The cocky bastard had practically _swaggered_ away.  Was that it?  John Watson has had his say, and that is the end of it?  Not bloody likely.  If John wants to finally play, then play we shall.  I have been waiting for three months.  I will not wait anymore.  The game is on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Sherlock was playing was Beethoven's Allegro Con Brio.
> 
> Also...Apologies for my lack of information on the penguin pool at the London Aquarium. It was really hard to find any info at all, so I just went with the description of one that I had seen.


	12. Perfect Is For Story Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally takes that final step but not all goes as perfectly as Sherlock had imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, my little lovelies, the final chapter. I have had such a fantastic time writing this and all of your comments and support have been wonderful. Big hugs to you all, and a wonderfully big hug to leyley09 who has gone through each chapter and fixed up all of my mistakes and helped the story make a bit more sense!!

### ~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t wait at the door, and I certainly don’t knock.  As I reach the top of the stairs, I head straight for John’s bedroom door and barge right in.  He doesn’t seem surprised in the least, nor does he seem surprised when I stride over to where he is standing by the bed, place my hands on either side of his face, and bring my mouth down to his in a kiss that is neither light nor chaste.  It is hard and hungry and conveys exactly what I want to do to John.  And I am not disappointed with the response.  John’s right arm snakes around my waist, pulling me closer, while his left hand goes to the back of my head, grasping my hair.  The sensation causes me to gasp, and John uses this opportunity to thrust his tongue into my mouth.  I almost groan at the sensation as our tongues twine around each other.  I pull back a bit in order to suck on the foreign muscle in my mouth, and this does elicit a moan from John.  To be able to hear that moan up close and not through the barrier of floor boards - and not accompanied by another, higher pitched moan - sends a shiver down my spine, and my cock, which was already quite hard, swells to a point that is quite uncomfortable.  I give a thrust against John’s hip, just so he knows exactly how I am feeling, and I am rewarded with a thrust of his own hips in return, showing me that he feels exactly the same way.  We continue this way, lips against lips, sucking, licking, and biting for a while, before the need to take a decent breath becomes essential.  I pull back and look down at John.  His hair is mussed, his skin is flush, his pupils dilated to the point where I can only see the slightest ring of colour around them, and his lips, oh, those lips are the most gorgeous things I have ever seen.  They are red and swollen, slightly parted, coated in saliva.  Mine?  His?  Ours?  I don’t know, and I don’t care.  I lean down and lick the bottom one.  John lets out a small gasp.  “Took you long enough”, he pants.  I pull back, holding him at arm’s length and look down at him.

“Me?” I growl.  ‘It took _me_ long enough!”

John bites his bottom lip and grins up at me cheekily.  “I expected you to follow me up here straight away.  I didn’t expect to be waiting almost fifteen minutes.”  At this, I push John up against the wall and attack his mouth again before my mouth moves along his jaw to the spot just under his ear.

“I have been waiting for you for three months”, I practically snarl, biting at the lobe of his ear.  This elicits a sharp breath from the doctor.  “Three months, I have been trying to get you here.” I nip at the skin under the ear. “But you would have to be one of the most stubborn men I have ever encountered.” I roll my hips against John’s body again, and it brings out a moan from the both of us.

“So”, John pants, grinding his hip against my straining cock, “I am here now; what are you going to do about it?”  Suddenly, I pull John from the wall and push him towards the bed.  As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he tumbles back, pulling me down with him.  Unfortunately for John, this results in one of my elbows driving into his stomach, and he lets out a wheezed “ _Jesus, fuck_.”  I get on my knees, straddling him, some of the lust I was feeling fleeing as he gasps in much needed air. My hands go to his abdomen, pushing slightly.  “Are you hurt?” I asked, rucking up his top, looking for injury.  John bats my hands away and pulls his top back. He takes a few steadying breaths as I try to ascertain if there is any damage again.

“I won’t be if you don’t stop trying to push on my stomach”, he breaths out.  “It was nothing.  Took me by surprise is all”, he assures me.  I look down at him, and he has a lopsided grin on his face.  I then look down where his hands are, holding down his jumper, and I take note of our position.  I look back up at John’s face, and I have a grin to match his.  I roll my hips, and the feel of our erections rubbing together brings back all of the lust that had left my body after I elbowed John in the stomach.  A deep groan leaves his throat as I do it again.  “Sherlock”, he gasps, and his hands start frantically pulling at the hem of his jumper.  I help him in pulling it up over his head and throw it on the floor behind me.   Next, my fingers fly down to his shirt, quickly picking at the buttons.  John tries to help, but his hands get in the way, so I slap them away with a scowl on my face.  Why are there so many fucking buttons?  And why are they so tiny?  From now on, all of the buttons on all of John’s shirts are being replaced with Velcro.  Finally, I get the last one undone and pull his shirt open to find yet another layer of clothing underneath.  A desperate sigh leaves my mouth as I sit John up and yank the shirt down his arms, only to encounter yet another problem.  The buttons on his cuffs are still done up, and the shirt is stuck.  I mutter several curse words that don’t usually leave my mouth as I try to pull the fabric back up his arms to be able to access more tiny, insipid buttons.  I glare at John when I hear him chuckle quietly.  “You could help, you know”, I snap, although it is out of frustration, not anger.

He chuckles again.  “I was trying.  You slapped my hands away”, and he grins as he watches my hands undo the two buttons that were trying to stop me from achieving my goal - getting John Watson as naked as the day he was born.  Finally, the cuffs are undone, and I yank the shirt off completely.  There is still the undershirt.  “Why”, I groan, “do you insist on so many layers of clothing?” I yank the shirt over his head where it catches, just briefly, around John’s head before stretching free.  It joins the shirt and the jumper on the floor behind me.  With John’s top half bare, I push him back down on the bed, following him with my lips attached to his neck.  I lick and suck the flesh as John arches up into my touch, moaning, all traces of amusement completely obliterated.  I suck a mark, up high, where it will be visible to everyone.  My sign to all those unworthy women that John H. Watson is taken.  Once I have left my mark, my lips move down to his collarbone where I suck another mark before moving down further to his chest.  I am prevented from  sucking any more marks by John’s hands fumbling with the buttons of my own shirt.  I quickly sit up, allowing for easier access as I undo the cuffs.  No point in making the same mistake twice.  I help with the buttons, moving from the top down while John works from the bottom up.  Eventually, all of the buttons are released, and I shrug out of the shirt, dropping it to join John’s clothes on the floor.  I waste no time in returning to my earlier ministrations.  John’s hands run through my hair, every now and then tugging on the curls as my tongue works its way over his left nipple.  He hisses when I take the little nub between my teeth and bite.  I lick over the bite and turn my attention to his other nipple.  I continue my journey down his body, sucking small red marks which will darken to purple come morning as I move further down.  I reach his bellybutton and carefully run my tongue around the outer rim before folding it into the little dip.  John’s grip on my hair tightens, and a deep moan rumbles through his throat.  I do it again, applying more pressure.  John’s moan is deeper this time.  “God, Sherlock.  Your mouth”, he gasps, pushing his abdomen up against my face.  I think I may have just found the only person in the world who has a navel as sensitive as my own.  I give it one last lick, and then place my mouth around it and suck.  John arches his back and lets out a cry.  With that, I move back up John’s body and reattach our lips.  John’s grasp on the back of my head tightens as his tongue explores my mouth, running over teeth, swiping along lips.  The tip of his tongue traces the outline of my upper lip before he draws it into his mouth and sucks on it.  He pulls back and looks at me.  I try to read the expression, but suddenly I am flipped and John is over me, his body pinning me to the bed. 

“My turn”, he growls, and his lips start their journey down my body.  As his tongue swirls around my nipple, I am vaguely aware of him opening the clasp of my trousers.  As he takes it in his mouth. I barely hear the sound of a zip being pulled down over my own hiss of my own breath.  He continues down my body, kissing and licking and sucking.  My nerves are on fire, and every touch of his mouth is pure bliss. Just as he reaches my bellybutton, he sits back on his heels and looks down at me with a devilish look.  I try to stop the whimper from leaving my mouth at the loss of his mouth on my skin, but it escapes any way.  He leans over and kisses me, manoeuvring his legs to the outside of my own.  I reach up into the kiss only to have him pull back again.  I growl at him in frustration, but before I can voice what I am thinking, he is off the bed tugging off my shoes and socks.  Next, his hands are on the waistband of my trousers, and he pulls them down in one smooth move.  Before I have a chance to react, my pants have met the same fate.  I am now lying on John’s bed, naked, while he hovers over me, and the look on his face is dark and sinful as his gaze travels over my body.  His tongue darts out to lick his lips not once, but three times before he blinks and looks me in the eye.  “You are gorgeous”, he whispers, and before I know it, his mouth is on mine again while his hands run down my sides.  I try to suppress the flinch as he lightly runs over a sensitive spot, but John notices.  The one time he actually observes something and it is now.  He pulls back and looks down at me, the amused look back on his face.  “Sherlock Holmes”, he murmurs, “Are you ticklish?”

“Don’t be absurd, John, of course I am no….”John runs his hands up my sides again. I twitch away from the touch and repress the smile that threatens to take over my mouth.  “John”, the warning is low.  “I really don’t think now is the time”, and I roll my hips up to meet his to prove my point.  The smile leaves John’s mouth, but the amusement is still there in his eyes as he grinds back, and the rough material of his jeans rubbing up against the naked skin of my cock sends pleasure coursing through my entire body.  My back arches into the touch, desperate for more.  “John”, I moan.  He kisses me again on the mouth before administering little kisses straight down my chest and stomach before stopping once again at my navel.  I inhale and hold my breath as I wait for his next move, and it is at this point that I realise that John is a tease.  He lays kisses all around my bellybutton, licking around it, but not quite touching it.  I feel cool breath blowing gently over it, and I gasp, my hips thrusting up. Then there is a little bite, just above it, and only then does John’s tongue dip down into the small hole and swirl around the inner walls.  I moan as I arch up into the touch, my hands automatically going to the back of his head.  He continues tonguing my navel for a few more moments before his kisses move further down.  I feel the tip of his finger swipe over the head of my cock, and I look down to see him looking at the pre-come that is coating the pad of his index finger.  He looks up at me and slowly brings the finger to his mouth, his lips covering the top of the digit, and he sucks.  I bite my bottom lip, hard, but a whimper still escapes.  John removes his finger from his mouth.  “I haven’t done this before," he tells me.

“So far, so good”, I manage to reply, but it comes out sounding choked.  I have never been so hard in all my life ,and I really just want John’s mouth around my cock now.  I don’t care if it is the worst blow job in the history of oral sex.  The condition I am in at the moment, it is not going to take long anyway.  John must realise that he is not going to get any further instruction out of me, as he shuffles back and lowers his head down.  He licks a stripe from the base of my cock to the tip, and a high pitched whimper leaves my mouth.  I know I should be embarrassed about making any sound in that range, but at the moment I have other things on my mind, like John’s warm breath against my cock as he contemplates his next move, which turns out to evoke an even more embarrassing reaction than the previous whimper.  John takes just the head of my cock in his mouth and sucks once. Everything leading up to this moment, every fantasy, every dream, every frustrating moment spirals down to right now, and I have no warning, therefore John has no warning.  The orgasm is instant and powerful.  My hips thrust up, pushing more of my cock into John’s mouth, who then, in turn, chokes and gags, spitting a mouthful of cum all over my pelvis.  The cry that leaves my mouth is so loud that I am surprised Mrs Hudson doesn’t come up to investigate.  As the waves of the orgasm ebb and my breathing regulates, the horror of what just happened washes over me.  I groan and cover my face with my hands; not that it does any good, as I am sure that the red currently heating my cheeks to what I can only assume is an alarming shade is more than likely covering a majority of my body as well.  I do not dare look at John. I am a thirty-four year old man, not a fourteen year old bloody teenager, and I couldn’t even handle a bloody blow job without losing it.  Before I know it John has crawled back up the bed and is lying next to me, trying to pry my hands away from my face.  “Go away John”, I mumble behind my hands.

“Sherlock, look at me”, John says.  He is trying to sound concerned, but I can also hear the amusement in his voice.

After he tugs at my hands again, I slowly lower them and look at John.  He looks wrecked.  His eyes are still watery from the choking, his lips are swollen, and he has come smeared on his temple.  I want to laugh, but I only manage a small smile.  “That was embarrassing”, I murmur, bringing my hand up and wiping the semen off of his face.  He smiles at me in return.  “Or I am just that good”, he says, giving me a cheeky grin, and I can’t help but laugh.  I sigh and look up at the ceiling.  “I don’t believe that happened”, I state flatly. Then with a concerned frown, “that has never happened”  I say appalled.

“Welcome to the world of us mere mortals”, John murmurs, nuzzling into my neck.  “Sometimes that happens”, and he licks a stripe from my shoulder up to behind my ear.  I turn to face him, and he leans in and kisses me.  I return the kiss, running my tongue over his lips.  I can taste myself on him,  mixed with the taste of John, and it is one of the best things I have ever tasted.  “Sherlock”, John whispers between kisses.  He then deepens the kiss before grinding his groin into the side of my thigh, reminding me that while I released, quite spectacularly, John still hadn’t got off.

I roll him onto his back and lean over him.  “What do you want, Sherlock”, he asks as my mouth moves to his neck, biting the skin.  I lick up his throat, my tongue travelling over his Adam's apple, under and over his chin noting the rough feel of his stubble against my tongue, then to his lips before I look down at him and whisper, “I want to fuck you.”  John groans as his lips claim mine.  In between kissing, he pants out, “top drawer.” Without leaving John, I reach over and yank the drawer open just a bit too hard.  The whole drawer comes out, the contents spilling to the floor.  I groan in frustration as I am forced to leave John’s mouth in order to find what I am looking for.  It doesn’t take long to find the bottle of green liquid.  Green?  Why is it green?  I read the label.   _Glow in the Dark Lubricant_. I look from the bottle in my hand to John, one eyebrow cocked questioningly.

“What?” John says, cocking his eyebrow back at me.  “It is easy to find when the lights are out.”

I shrug at his reasoning and get back to working on John.  Sitting back on my heels, my hand goes to the bulge in John’s jeans, and he gasps.  That little sound sends ripples of pleasure down my spine.  “That must be uncomfortable”, I state, applying more pressure.  John’s gasp turns into a hiss.  “Painful even”, I practically purr as I rub my hand slowly up, then down.  John Watson likes to tease.  So do I.  His hands move down to the button on his jeans, but I grab both wrists and lean over to pin his arms above his head.  “That is not for you to touch”, I whisper in his ear.  “Leave them there”, I order him, my eyes looking to his hands where they rest above his head, then I turn my attention lower.  Slowly, my hands move over his thighs and around his cock, slowly moving up to the button on his jeans.  I pop the clasp and slowly draw down the zip.  Already, my mouth is watering at the sight before me.  John is wearing a pair of his favourite red pants, and what I can see of the contents is already impressive.  I tug on his jeans, and he lifts his hips in order to help.  Gradually, I drag the trousers down his legs, not taking my eyes off the sight before me.  I pull the trousers down further when John says my name.  “No talking”, I tell him.  I am still cataloguing all that is before me, but John insists on making conversation.  “But, Sherlock”, comes his voice.  “Shhh”, I reply as I shuffle back on the bed, pulling the trousers further down as I go.  I give one final tug of the trousers.  They don’t budge, but the motion does send me toppling back off of the bed.  The first thing I note is John’s bark of laughter from the bed before he crawls over and peers down at me.  “Are you all right?” he asks, between gasps of laughter.  I frown up at him.

“Why did you kick me off the bed?” I ask, frustration and anger starting to boil up.  It is the only solution I can come up with as to how I ended up down here, while John is still up there.  This causes John to laugh even harder.

“I didn’t kick…oh my god, this is so funny.”  John stops to take a breath.  He moves around on the bed so he is sitting up with his legs hanging over the edge, and I immediately see what went wrong.  “I tried to warn you, twice, but you weren’t listening.”  John’s laughter has stopped, apart from the odd little chuckle that erupts as I push his trousers up over his feet and slip off his shoes.  I yank off the offending trousers and peel off his socks, before picking myself up off of the floor and climbing back onto the bed, back over John who is shuffling back up the bed as fast as he can. He still has a too large grin on his face for my liking.  As he reaches the top of the bed, I push him down with one hand and grab his still clothed cock with my other, applying a generous amount of pressure.  His grin drops and his eyes squeeze shut as he rocks up into the touch.  My hand grasps around his cock, still concealed under the bright red fabric and suddenly it is not enough.  I have fantasised about John, naked, for so long.  I need to see it.  Now.  I slip my fingers into the waistband of John’s pants and gently tug them down.  As they slide further down, the head of Johns cock, red and bulbous pops out the top.  I feel my own penis start to stir back to life.  The head is followed by a thick shaft, broad vein running along the underside.  I pull the pants down as far as mid-thigh before I stop so I can study John closer. The shaft, which is a good length, has an even better girth and a perfect curve.  It is a dusty pink, and the sack that hangs underneath it is pulled tight.  The thatch of hair that surrounds it all is darker than the hair on John’s head.  I run a finger through the hair, surprised to find that it is softer than it looks.  This causes John to buck up as he lets out a small whine.

“Sherlock”, he gasps.  “Please.”

Looking into John’s eyes, I run my finger lower, around the base of his penis and under his scrotum.  He tries to thrust up, but I use my other hand to hold his hips down.  My finger travels lower until I reach the small section between his balls and his anus.  Gently, I run my finger up and down, applying a bit more pressure each time I rub back down.  John is still trying to buck his hips, but comes to a halt when my finger moves down to his anus, lightly tracing circles around the tight ring.  I apply pressure to the ring, and John instantly tenses up.  “Relax”, I tell him softly.  He does as I push again.  “Have you done this before?” I ask as I reduce the pressure and return to tracing small circles around. John nods.  “To yourself?”  John nods again.  “Often?” This is followed by a shake of his head.  I lean down and kiss him, softly.  “I’ll go slowly”, I promise.  I remove both of my hands from his body.  I finish removing his pants, throwing them on the floor with the rest of the clothes.  As I reach over for the lubricant, I position John’s legs so they are bent as far as they will go and are spread as wide as he will allow.  I squirt an overly generous amount of lube into my hand, flipping the cap shut and dropping the bottle next to me.  I rub the liquid over my fingers and settle between John’s legs again.  “Relax”, I tell him again as I place one hand on his stomach while the other one drops between his legs.  Gently, I place my finger back at his entrance and lightly push.  John’s muscles clench at the unusual feeling, but I rub gentle circles over his stomach with my other hand to get him to relax.  It works.  Slowly, I work my finger in.  He is so smooth and hot inside.  And so tight.  John has his eyes closed and is worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.  Carefully, I push my finger in until it is knuckle deep, and then bring it back out again.  I do this over and over again, picking up speed until John’s hips are rocking, just slightly, in time with the thrust of my finger.  While he is enjoying the sensation of one finger’ I add another without warning.  Telling him would only cause him to tense up again, and my cock is back at full attention again.  I don’t want a repeat of its last performance, so dragging this out all night is not going to happen.  John clenches around my finger as I work the two in.  I don’t push all the way in at once.  I am not _that_ impatient.  I thrust back and forth, slowly pushing further in with each push.  John’s clenching eases up, and I can freely move my fingers in and out.  I spread them open, just a bit, to stretch John further.  This causes John to hiss in pain.  I continue rubbing smooth circles onto his abdomen,  starting small and getting larger.  Just like the spreading of my fingers.  John completely relaxes into my touch, and I use this opportunity to bend my fingers, just a bit, to brush up against the small bundle of nerves inside of John.  John’s eyes shoot open, and his back arches off the bed as he cries out, his cock now leaking a generous amount of pre-come.

“Fucking hell”, he moans as he settles back on the bed.  I don’t have to explain what that was;  he is a doctor, after all.  I continue the thrusting and the scissoring until I feel that John is ready for another finger.  I pull my fingers out completely, and a small cry slips past John’s lips, his hips thrusting up for more contact.  “Shh”, I comfort him and show him the bottle of lubricant as I apply more to my hands.  I put the bottle down and go back to my previous position, my hand rubbing circles on John’s stomach while my other hand drops back down.  Slowly, I push the tip of one finger in, then two, followed by a third.  It takes a second for John to realise what he is feeling and his muscles clench again, but slowly they ease up and I am able to work my fingers in.  Before long, I have got all three finger in John as far as they can go, and I am happy to feel him trying to push down further.  I bend them to brush over his prostate again, pulling my fingers out, just a bit and pushing them back in.  I continue the thrusting motion over and over again, brushing over his prostate on every fourth or fifth thrust.  Gradually, my thrusts get harder and faster until John is a moaning, writhing mess beneath me.    He reaches for his cock, which has been left untouched throughout this entire event, but I slap his hands away.  “Not yours to touch, Doctor Watson”, I chide as I look greedily at the pool of pre-come on his stomach. I lean down to lick it up.  I moan as the taste hits my tongue.  It is thick and salty and earthy.  It is wonderful.   “Sherlock”, John growls as he pushes down against my fingers again.  “More….I need more”, he demands.  I remove my fingers from the tight grip of John’s arse and lean over his body, positioning myself between his knees.  Using the lubricant one more time, I cover my erection with a thick coating.  I kiss his mouth as I run one hand up his side and over his chest and shoulder.  It rests on his scar before I pull my mouth away from his and guide the tip of my cock to his entrance.

“Condoms.  On the floor”, he moans, rolling his hips up, seeking friction for his own, untouched cock.

I brace my free hand next to his head and nibble next to his ear.  “Should we maybe have thought about that _before_ I came in your mouth?” I murmur between licks and kisses.  “And it is not necessary.  I am clean.  I haven’t done anything since I was last tested”, I tell him.  “And you were tested two weeks ago.”  John pulls his head away and gives me an odd look.

“I think I would remember that, Sherlock.” I ignore his protests and continue to work on the skin just below his ear.  “The organ harvesting case.  I took your blood myself.  Had Molly send it to the labs to get tested.  You came back clean as a whistle, so I repeat.  Not.  Necessary.”  I punctuate the last two words with a lick to John’s neck.

John huffs out a laugh.  “Controlling wanker”, he says fondly, and I glare down at him.

“Lately, yes, no thanks to you, and I would very much like to put an end to it; so if you have quite finished talking, I would like to proceed to the part where I actually get to fuck you.”

John grins up at me.  “You are such a sweet talker”, he muses and reaches up for another kiss, which I happily oblige.  Again, I position the tip of my cock against his entrance.  This time he doesn’t stop me, and slowly I push the tip in.  John clenches around the intrusion.  I gently wrap my free hand around his cock, marvelling at the silky smooth feel of the skin and pattern of the vein running underneath it.  This is the first time that I have touched John’s naked cock, and I can practically feel my skin buzzing.   John’s head lolls back on the pillow with a sharp gasp.  “Oh, god”, he moans and rocks up into the touch.  This pushes my cock in just a bit further, and I let out a low moan and hold myself back from thrusting straight in; the effort of restraining myself causes my thighs to tremble slightly.  John is hot and so tight.  He groans at the intrusion, which is more than three fingers worth, and I give his cock a gentle tug to take his mind off of it.  My thumb swipes the tip and moves back down.  As it travels back up, I give a slight twist at the glans, smearing the pre-come.  John moans at the sensation, and I use the opportunity to push in a bit further.  Slowly, I pull out, my hand moving down his cock.  I push back in, just a bit further than before as my hand moves back up his cock.  This pattern is repeated over and over again until I am fully seated inside John.  My balls are against his arse, and I am completely surrounded by John.  The feeling is so much more than I could have ever imagined.  I don’t want to stop moving, but I know I need to let John adjust to the feeling.  I look down at John.  A bead of sweat is running down his forehead.  I lean down and lick it up.  He tastes divine.  Slowly, I pull out, and John gasps and then moans when I push back in.  I repeat the motion.  Then again.  And again. Each time, I move a bit faster, and John’s gasps come less often and his moans come more.  Soon, I am moving continuously, and John’s hips are thrusting in time with mine, trying to take me deeper.  I snap my hips over and over again, my hand moving over his cock in time with my thrusts, until John is moaning my name repeatedly.   _Sherlock_ soon becomes _Sh’lock_ and is not long after shortened down to _‘lock_.   He brings his legs up and wraps them around my waist which angles his hips up.  This seems to be the magic angle as John cries out, loud and hoarse, his muscles clenching around me as I hit his prostate.  I angle again.  This time, his back arches off of the bed and his nails dig into my shoulders.  I can feel something running down my back.  It could be blood or sweat; either way I don’t care.  All I care about now is moving inside of John, the muscles clenching around my cock as it rubs against John’s inner walls.  The friction on my cock, the pain in my shoulders, the vision of John writhing in pleasure as I hit his prostate again and again, the sounds of John’s moans and cries, and the smell of both of us, sweaty and musky.  Three more precise thrusts, and John is screaming my name, come spilling out of the tip of his cock, spreading over his stomach, chest, and neck.  A few drops land on his chin.  The orgasm causes his muscles to clench around me, tighter than I thought possible, and with the next thrust, my head snaps back and my mouth opens to let out a guttural “JOHN” as my own orgasm washes over my body, ejaculate spilling out into John.  I can feel it slide around me, mixing with the sweat and the lubricant as I thrust again, and again, milking every last drop.

Wrecked, I drop down onto John, smearing his come between our two bodies.  I couldn’t care less.  At the moment, I am happy to lay like this until it dries, sticking the two of us together.  I rest my head on John’s shoulder and listen to his heart beat as it slows down. I regulate my breathing to match his.  After a while, John speaks.

“We should have done this sooner”, he mumbles, bringing his arms up to lazily drape around my back.

“If you weren’t so stubborn, we could have been doing it three months ago”, I reply sleepily.

“What is so special about three months ago?” John asks, sounding very relaxed.  “You said before, how you had been waiting for three months.”

I snuggle closer to John.  “That is when I decided to seduce you.”

John let out a small bark of laughter.  “Is that what you have been doing?”

I lift my head to glare at John.  “Of course, that is what I was doing.  What did you think I was doing?”

“I will admit, I did notice that you have been acting strange, but I thought it was some sort of experiment”, John confesses, pulling me back down to him in a hug.  “I thought I was going mad.”

I wriggle, trying to get closer to John.  This action causes my now soft cock to slip out of John.  I hear the small, sharp intake of breath from him, and I feel a bit sad at the loss of that particular contact so I snuggle further into his chest.  “I made it rather obvious, John, you just weren’t paying attention.”

“What, you mean the banana and swanning around the flat half dressed?  Then you kept going to that bloody club.  And all after that first night when you told me that you were married to your work.  What was I supposed to think?”  I can feel John tensing under me.  I gently run my hand up and down his side, soothing the tension away, and note, with a pout, that he isn’t ticklish.  How is that fair?  He is the cute, cuddly, jumper-wearing one.  It only stands to reason that he should also be the ticklish one.

“The club was to make you jealous, because nothing else was working”, I inform him, starting to feel sleepy again.  “And everything else almost worked.  You almost kissed me”, I yawn and close my eyes.  “Why didn’t you?” I ask.  John is silent for a while, and I start to think that he isn’t going to answer.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted”, he finally offers.  “I honestly thought you would never want me, not really.  I am nothing like you.  I just thought, like I said before, it was an experiment, and I knew that if I kissed you, if I let myself down that road, I wouldn’t recover from your eventual rejection.”  He stops talking, and we lay there in the silence before he speaks again.  “Then, the other night, you called me perfect, and I let myself believe that maybe I was good enough. I started looking back at all of your odd behaviour, and I saw that in some weird, twisted, utterly you way, you were trying to get my attention.  So I applied your methods, and here we are.” His arms tighten around my shoulders.

“Here we are”, I repeat, quietly.  “Not quite the perfect first time I imagined, but yes, here we are.”

John huffs out a small laughr.  “Perfect is for story books.  I wouldn’t change a thing about tonight if I could.”

I tilt my head to leave a small kiss in the middle of John’s chest.  “ _You_ are perfect,John Watson”, and before I can stop myself the words are out of my mouth.  “I love you.”  Under my ear, I hear John’s heart rate quicken, and the arms around my shoulders squeeze just a bit tighter.

“I love you too, Sherlock”, he whispers into my hair, followed by a soft press of his lips.

We lay like that for a while longer before the room starts to feel cold and the mess between our bodies starts to itch.  “We should really go have a shower”, John mumbles, sounding as if he is trying not to fall asleep.  I groan at the thought of having to leave the comfort of John and trudge down the stairs.

“Fine, but from now on, we do this in my room.  No stairs”, I mumble back.

“Agreed”, John sighs, pushing me up.  We both wince as our stomachs unstick themselves from each other.  We leave the comfort of the bed and head downstairs towards the bathroom.

The water falling down on both of us is warm, and it wakes me up somewhat.  I lather a sponge up with John’s soap and wash his back, snaking my arms around to clean his stomach and chest next.  Part of me is sad to see the last remains of our first time wash down the drain.  My hand continues down to wash between his legs, and I smile as I feel his cock twitching under my gentle touches.

“Did you like my performance with the banana?” I softly growl in his ear.  John’s head falls back onto my shoulder.  “Between that and the bloody éclair, I thought of little else throughout the entire day, you sly bastard.”

I nibble at his ear before whispering.  “Would you like to see the full show?”  John groans and turns in my arms.  He kisses my lips, and I drop the sponge as I sink to my knees, palming John’s cock to full hardness before showing him what I can do, happy at the thought that tonight is the beginning of a lifetime of showing John H. Watson what I am really capable of.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Haha....finally re-found the site were I got the original transcript from "A Study In Pink".  
> Thanks to Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan @ http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html for all of her hard work in putting every precious word of the episode in script. It made my job SOOOOO much easier!!


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